


Bicentennial

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Series: Bicentennial Series [1]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Drama, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Special days call for special gifts. SebaCiel. (A collection of related one-shots.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bicentennial

**Disclaimer:** Nope.

 **Author's Note:** OKAY. SO. The "Bicentennial" series has been going on for a while, now, on fanfiction.net... and it's sorta sprawling and chaotic on my profile there. XD; Anyway, since I'm reposting, I figured I'd take the opportunity to organize things a bit. :3 All things pre-Sebastian and Ciel's marriage will be collected here; their wedding is a chapter-fic in itself; post-marriage will be collected on its own, as well. (With "666" continuing to be it's own thing, because it's... well, already it's own thing. XD) All of the related fics my friends have written (and occasionally get mentioned in my works) can be found here: http://neocloud9.livejournal.com/541634.html 

I think that's it... Happy reading! :D

 **Warnings:** SebaCiel. (Does that need a warning?) Fluffy. Probably OOC, but I don't care. :D Anime based, but contains references to the manga. Beware the British English! Also, I like the color purple.

 **Dedication:** For my darling Nene, because I was totally thinking of "Phobia"'s Sebastian and Ciel while writing this. 3 And also for Askee, because we each promised to write something for this particular… let's say "event." XD

**XXX**

**Bicentennial**

**XXX**

**8:43 AM**

"Why, hello there, little boy. Are you lost?"

The voice is smooth and low, a laughing purr that matches the Cheshire smile that slinks its way onto the speaker's pretty face. Dressed in form-fitting jeans, a stylishly frayed shirt, and an open leather jacket, the attractive young man offers his hand to the child in question; the fingerless gloves adorning his palms are as black as his hair, coat, and nails. The dark color exemplifies the alabaster pallor of his skin, making him seem rather ethereal in effect.

Despite his obvious youth, the boy to whom the man has spoken is no less beautiful a specimen. Slim and elegant, the child wears a button-down jacket of vibrant azure and heavy boots made to match his ebony fasteners. At the sound of the other's voice, he looks up from his pink-tinged knees; he had seated himself on the ledge of a large marble fountain, crafted to look elegant but in the context of its placement is nothing more than a tacky distraction. As such, it serves well as a meeting place: a blotch of sallow white, of soothing nothingness, against the dizzying rainbow array of sights and sounds and lights and mingling people. As the boy scrutinizes the speaker, a spurt of artificially-blue liquid is shot towards the sky, and the scent of chlorine fills the brisk January air. Just beneath the mechanic whirl-sigh-hiss of concealed machinery, tinny mobius melodies can be heard tumbling from masked loudspeakers.

"If I am," the 13-year-old replies evenly, picking a stray piece of lint from his otherwise immaculate attire, "will you take me home?"

The older one chuckles, doe eyes flashing a deviant shade of vermillion as the sun peaks through the hazy clouds. "Shouldn't you at least wait until a stranger has offered you candy before you make such a proposition?" he teases, fingers coiling covetously around the tiny hand that has slipped into his own, as petite and seemingly breakable as a glass doll's. With a gentle pull, the child is on his feet. "One might think you desperate."

The boy snorts, flicking his glance upward; beneath the heavy curve of onyx lashes, his cobalt irises glisten with maturity… like a sapphire, ancient and alluring. "I can think of sweeter treats to sample," he returns suggestively, in a saccharine husk that no one his age should be aware of, let alone be able to skillfully utilize. But then his grin softens, losing its depraved bite in the wake of genuine happiness. "Still, as we can't have anyone thinking I'm desperate, I believe you are now obligated to buy me candy."

**9:17 AM**

"Where would you like to go first, Ciel?"

It shouldn't make him blush, not really, that simple collection of letters. Two syllables: casual, familiar, and "only natural," as the other might say, while wearing that long, toothy leer of his. Only natural, in this day and age. Only natural, considering the progression of their relationship. But even though Ciel himself had been the one to request the use of his given name— _You're drawing far too much attention to us, calling me by such an archaic title, Sebastian!_ — the electric pang he experiences upon hearing it never seems to fade away; like lightening, the intimacy shown in those unanticipated moments of verbal affection shoots a shower of sparks from ears to lungs to heart. Whenever his name falls from those glossy, grinning lips, Ciel feels his insides overheat and glow.

He is fairly certain that his outsides do the same.

Self-conscious (but still privately pleased), the boy buries the lower half of his face—nose, smile, the rose tinge of his cheeks— behind the raised collar of his jacket and manages a haughty, "I've no particular preference."

Sebastian chuckles.

"As you say."

The hand encircling his own gives the faintest of squeezes, as if in reassurance. As if to say that he still feels it, too.

Ciel is already very warm at this point, with his little body clothed in wool and his swollen heart all aflutter, but he uses the frosty weather as an excuse to stand a bit closer, anyway. To coil his arm through Sebastian's. And he can't help but wonder—as they stroll past cooing couples, married men, wedded women, and tittering teens of all different genders—if they look as if they're on a date, too.

**10:34 AM**

In truth, they know this amusement park like the back of their hands. Or the back of the other's hand, as it were. They're aware of how popular each attraction is, when particular side shows start and finish, the general length of every line, which booths sell the tastiest snacks… There's no need or reason to wander around, following aimlessly winding paths, pausing at intersections to consider signs.

But they do so anyway, because it eats up time.

After making their first, full circle of the overcrowded, popcorn-scented grounds, Sebastian pauses beside a lamppost, decorated like a maypole for the holidays. Through layers of cheap velvet ribbon, a ridiculous number of rectangular markings protrude, pointing left and right and this way and that— like a signpost in Wonderland.

"Well?" Sebastian prompts, tilting his face to consider the child beside him. "What would you like to ride?"

For a pensive spell, Ciel returns the stare… then he allows his eyes to slide towards the crimson stripes of the garish pole before them. His head cocks, his lips purse, his gaze slides back and fore, back and fore, over the bubbled letters that direct park patrons towards roller coasters and merry-go-rounds, arcades and food shops.

An idea curls up the corners of his mouth.

With a telling smirk and meaningful tug, the boy leads his companion towards the bathrooms, free hand already moving to pop the buttons of his coat.

**11:02 AM**

"I would like to buy the red one, if I may."

"Of course," the teller chirps, and skillfully separates the scarlet balloon from its equally boisterous brethren. A cheerful blonde (who, based on her age, is probably working through college), the young woman graces Ciel with a sisterly smile as Sebastian picks through his wallet for change. "Aren't _you_ a cutie?" she coos as she beams, and her heart melts all the more when Ciel instinctively ducks behind Sebastian, watching the stranger through the gap in the other's elbow.

"Ciel, what are you, five?" Sebastian chastises—affectionately exasperated—as he and the girl make their exchange. "You needn't be rude."

"Oh, it's okay, don't worry about it," the employee titters, still gracing the pouting child with an enamored sort of expression. "He's just shy, the little sweetheart. Aren't you, love?"

Ciel glares, but doesn't dignify the question with a verbal response. The girl remains entirely unfazed, going so far as to pat his head ( _the bloody cheek!_ ) before returning her attention to Sebastian. "Is he your son?"

And when the pretty female offers Sebastian a look that suggests she wouldn't care either way, Ciel decides that he's had enough. He may be used to these sorts of encounters, but that doesn't mean he likes them; in retaliation, he swiftly swings himself around Sebastian, all possessive arms and twining legs… And once he's fully garnered her notice, Ciel pushes himself onto his tiptoes and slips his tongue into the mouth that opens to offer an answer.

" _Ah_ —!"

It is a brief kiss, but blatantly sexual; Ciel pulls away with a wily grin and a snap of saliva, plucking his balloon from Sebastian's frozen hand. "Thank you, Daddy," he then sings, and skips happily off, content to leave his servant to wipe the look of horrified disgust from the carnies' pasty face.

When the elder man catches up a minute or two later, he doesn't share his companion's palpable amusement.

"You are going to get us arrested," he scolds, even as he re-laces his fingers through Ciel's.

"Would you _really_ let the police come between us?" the child counters with a scoff, unfazed by the other's irritation. Instead, he watches his new toy bounce and bop and wave… at least until Sebastian's hand readjusts his chin, anyway, and instead of a round, ruby balloon he finds himself staring into a pair of round, ruby irises.

"No," Sebastian murmurs, "I would not. But neither would I allow a mortal girl to come between us."

…touché.

The boy does not speak. He doesn't grumble or apologize, or even bother looking guilty. But the demon can tell by the shifting of his bitty booted feet that the message has been understood.

They continue onward without further mention of the incident, barely noticing when the red balloon slips free and floats away.

**11:47 AM**

Anything to eat up time.

"Are your hands cold?" Sebastian asks as they wait amidst a thrumming throng of tourists, lined like ants and packed like sardines between guardrail and gates. The child—caught swaying in the human tide— looks momentarily startled by the inquiry, and is about to ask why the other would assume… but then Ciel realizes that he's fallen into the habit of feet-stamping and palm-rubbing, just like the other boys and girls who've crowded around them.

A veritable chameleon, he is.

"Here," the elder chuckles, gently prying apart his companion's hands and wrapping them in his own. Then he slips both sets of intertwined fingers into the pockets of his jacket: toasty little havens of body heat and leather. Through the worn, thin fabric of the coat's inner lining, Ciel's knuckles brush against raised ridges of bone and flesh— teasing touches of hip and muscle, their warmth achingly familiar against the satin of his oversensitive flesh.

"Well, now. That seems to be working quite nicely," Sebastian remarks. And the boy can hear the undercurrent of laughter that thrums beneath the polite veneer of his voice… can practically feel it, as if it were as tangible as the blood that has rushed to stain the apple of his cheeks. "How is the rest of your body? Still chilly? Shall I give you a hug?"

The suggestion is innocent (and meant to sound so), but there is a devil's promise lurking within the innocuous proposal. And that is why Ciel's blush fades from magenta to burgundy, his mind reeling with thoughts and memories and other scandalous sorts of wishes.

But they are very nearly at the front of the line, now, so aloud he only grumbles: "This is sufficient, thank you."

**11:53 AM**

"Now remember," Ciel decrees, the words barely audible over the shrill shriek of the coaster car's protective bar. With a decided _thump_ , said bar falls like a padded guillotine, encircling the riders in its (seemingly) secure embrace. All the same, those contained within the aluminum cart jiggle and jerk, vibrating along with an unseen, rumbling engine. "The ride is more fun if you keep your hands in the air."

In example, the boy thrusts his arms upward: lithe and slender and properly vertical; then he shoots Sebastian a pointed look. The look becomes a glare when the other's actions do not mirror his own.

"If I may," Sebastian retorts instead, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant as his fingers coil around the restraint that rests snuggly against their middles, "it is far safer to—"

A lower lip juts outward, young face scrunching in an unintentional pout; that expression alone manages to derail Sebastian's current train of thought. He has lost the battle long before Ciel's command rings through the air… Even so, he manages to hold out until the boy snaps, "I _order_ you to put your hands up!"

Their glossy coaster car gives a metallic grunt, inching experimentally forward. Sebastian sighs, smiles, and does as he's told.

"Yes, my lord."

**12:29 PM**

The starving will eat anything, even funfair junk. And there is certainly nothing "junkier" than the corndogs that rotate in the street vendor's kiosks —round and round, like hamsters on a wheel… and who knows; that could very well be what they're made of. But even so, it wouldn't bother Ciel; he has, after all, dined on far worse in his day.

"I've been wondering," he says ponderingly as he slides the golden treat into his mouth, fried breading varnished by layers of warm grease. His tongue laps at the crest of it; he likes it best when the crust is a bit soggy. "Why are hotdog wheels always so squeaky? These things are literally _oozing_ oil— wouldn't that oil drip down and properly lubricate the device? …Sebastian?"

He twists his head towards his silent companion, sitting beside him on the painted park bench. Ciel half-considers prompting him for a response, but soon realizes it'd be pointless; if Sebastian had heard any of his previous ramblings, it was likely only the mention of the word 'lubrication.' Ciel has long-since familiarized himself with the carnal glitter in the scarlet eyes that are so eagerly watching him eat. It is such an excruciatingly _ravenous_ look, the child can't help but simper and giggle and remove the corndog with a spittle-slickened _pop_ , waving it between himself and his butler.

"I apologize, did you want a taste?" the little one teases, elfin tongue darting out to clean the corners of his sneer. "I would be more than happy to share. As you always say, you have to give to receive..."

He licks the soft, plump length once more, tiny chest aching with unvoiced laughter as he watches the gears in Sebastian's immoral mind turn… much like those squeaky hotdog wheels. Ice cream cones, lollipops, bananas— chocolate-dipped or otherwise—, popsicles and (obviously) creamsicles, candy canes, rock candy, Toblerone, and now…

"You are no longer allowed to eat corndogs," Sebastian decrees, his silken voice raspy with lust as he delicately readjusts his body. As if he might be able to keep Ciel from noticing how he'd subconsciously leaned closer. (Doubtful.) "They are bad for both your health and my own."

"Oh dear. Are you feeling somewhat… peaky?" Ciel inquires, his tone as mockingly innocent as his wide-eyed, overly-concerned stare. He suckles on the corndog's tip for a fleeting moment longer; the breading melts away, revealing a bitty peephole of pink that makes even the child think, _yes, corndogs should_ definitely _be on the banned list._ All the same, his leer gains teeth when Sebastian chokes on a groan. "You _do_ sound a bit out of sorts. Do you need to use the restroom?"

The elder levels his charge a very wry glower. It would have been slightly more effective, Ciel thinks, if his butler's cheeks hadn't flushed to match his lost balloon. "I would take you with me," Sebastian retorts, and it is not so much a threat as it is a promise. Or perhaps it is not so much a promise as it is a threat. The child isn't really sure anymore, but that doesn't keep him from beaming.

"Oh, I would be alright by myself for a minute or two," he sweetly returns, licking a dewdrop of grease from a daintily crooked pinkie. "I don't need to use the toilet right now, thank you."

Another muffled slurp, another strangled moan.

"…you can be a _huge brat_ sometimes, you know that?" Sebastian drawls, and he sounds both frustrated and wholly amused as his master (feigningly affronted) stands as if to storm away… but instead drops evocatively atop his butler's jean-clad lap, shifting and settling and rub-rub-rubbing as he push-pulls his unhealthy lunch in-out of his sinful little mouth.

Around the sodden corndog, Ciel's lips curve into a wickedly chipper leer.

"I know."

**1:04 PM**

Honestly, it is rather embarrassing, getting caught so often…

"Go! Go, Wild Earl, you ca— Sebastian?" Cheeks ruddy with excitement and the bite of mid-winter wind, Sebastian's enthusiastic master pulls his attention away from the cheesy costumes and histrionic tendencies of the people on stage long enough to grace his butler with an expression of concern. "Are you not enjoying yourself?"

The devil's response is an affectionate smile, though the gentle arch is interrupted by the round of his knuckles. He settles his chin more comfortably in the camber of his palm, elbow propped against his crossed knee as he nods. "I am having a great deal of fun," he then verbally reassures, and when Ciel is convinced of this fact (or, rather, when he can no longer bear to ignore the action on the distant rostrum), Sebastian returns to watching _his_ favorite show: bright navy eyes, waving willowy arms, lilting voice raw from shouting and booing and laughter…

"No, you idiot! Are you daft? Get him— get _hi—_ yes! Go, go, go!"

Often, it is difficult to remember that Ciel Phantomhive is a child. But at times like this, Sebastian can't help but wonder how he could ever forget.

"Yea! The Wild Earl wins!"

**2:19 PM**

Ciel doesn't need to be scared, of course. He knows his way around this park, knows how best to summon his servant, knows that (if worse came to worse) all he'd have to do is shout "I'm here."

But when he turns around and realizes that Sebastian is not behind him—that the surge of strangers leaving the arena had swallowed him from view— the child's immediate reaction is one of fear. Of raw panic, clawing at his insides. And in truth, he isn't entirely sure why. He can survive on his own, after all— it has been (quite literally) _ages_ since he was fully dependant; Ciel is proud of the fact that his days of pathetic, parasitic clinging are long behind him.

Why wasn't Sebastian behind him?

To his left and to his right, friends and families frolic and flow; he rocks in time to the crowd's cadence, but he does not stray from his small patch of concrete. He will be found faster, he knows, if he stays put. And so he prepares himself to do just that: buries his fists in his pockets and his mind in his musings, biting his bottom lip as he waits. Alone. Which shouldn't bother him this much— no, it shouldn't. What is the worst that could happen, being alone? Alone by the gleaming light of decorations, by the banners the flicker and waver like flames, by the strangers with their carnival masks: familiar, eyeless, because they are actors, actors, _actors—_

Ciel jolts, throat constricting around a scream as somebody swiftly grabs his wrist. But when he turns to break away, free hand snapping out to assist in the process, he suddenly realizes that the masks are not the only familiar thing. He knows this touch, scent, warmth better than anything else in the world…

" _There_ you are," Sebastian sighs, and his shoulders slump as if a heavy burden has fallen from them. It is a sensation that Ciel can relate to, for he feels exactly the same way… Though he, of course, has a reputation to uphold, and hides his face from view before his butler has a chance to notice the look of relief that has taken his features hostage. Even still, Sebastian can probably feel it—teary eyes and all— for Ciel's chosen hiding place was the devil's shirtfront. "I apologize for losing sight of you—some of those children are _vicious_ pushers."

The demon shivers faintly, as if reliving a bad memory; Ciel snorts, the sound of it muffled by the fabric of his companion's top. "You're an idiot for sounding so anxious," he then grunts, even as fretful fingers twist in dark cloth. A wet sniffle; a snooty cough. Watching him squirm, Sebastian can't help but smile; the hand that is not holding Ciel's shaking shoulder comes to rest against the downy crown of his head. The little hypocrite… "You've said it before. Because of our Contract, you always know where I am. How I am."

It is a reminder, and not just for the butler's sake. "Indeed," Sebastian agrees, fingertips straying once more. This time, the spindly digits gather beneath Ciel's chin; with a ginger touch, he tips his master's face upward, and presses a feathery kiss to his brow. "But just because I know, doesn't mean I do not worry."

For a moment, the child says nothing.

Then, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like another " _idiot,_ " he whirls around and walks away… holding tightly to Sebastian's hand.

**3:57 PM**

Sebastian has lived far longer than anyone would ever guess. Humankind has always made far too many assumptions based on appearances, of course, but even his fellow demons frequently fail to realize his true age. He has not existed for decades, centuries, or even a mere millennia— he is more than that, older than that. It might be easier to simply call him timeless.

And yet, for all of that—for all of the thousands upon thousands of years that he has lived, for all of the thousands upon thousands of things that he has witnessed—Sebastian doesn't think that he has ever seen anything that has made him laugh as hard as he is doing right now.

"Would you _shut up_?" Ciel snaps, blushing brightly as he rips the fuzzy blue hat from his head. In his trembling fist, the cap's white google-eyes jitter and swivel, watching Sebastian as he collapses against the doorframe. "It's not that funny!"

The loss of the spectacle does nothing more than exacerbate the situation; Sebastian flaps an encouraging hand as he doubles over, so amused that it physically hurts. " _N-no-no-no_ ," the demon wheezes—though he keeps cutting himself off with more snickers. "Sweet Satan, Ciel… P-put that hat back on, it was just too adorab—buh— _bahaha_ …!"

The child continues to glower beside the collection of mascot hats, each one designed to be suggestive of a popular cartoon character. It was a stylistic choice that Ciel hadn't been fully aware of when he'd first noticed the cap; he'd just found that particular shade of indigo appealing. And he'd thought it looked rather warm. And he _hadn't_ thought Sebastian had been looking when he'd ever-so-sneakily dipped behind the mannequins and pulled it onto his head. But of course, he could never hide anything from his servant…

"You sound like the Undertaker," Ciel hisses, fiddling angrily with the hat's decorative tassels. But then he realizes that was part of the problem; he throws the cap atop its many felt brothers, content to let it rot beneath the "Sesame Street" sign. "Let it go! I'm never wearing a hat again, dear Lord."

"Oh _yes,_ you will…!" Sebastian corrects, still giggling like a madman as he forcibly rights himself, clutching at his stomach as if someone had punched him. (Which is a good idea, now that Ciel thinks about it.) "We are buying that. And you will wear it next Sunday."

" _No,_ I won't," the child informs, crossing stubborn arms over his chest and glaring daggers as Sebastian gleefully plucks the hat back off its table. Tears of mirth have added a mirror-smooth sheen to his eyes; Ciel can almost see himself reflected in them. "Even if you buy it, I will _never_ wear it."

"You said the same thing about the kitty ears," Sebastian reminds—almost sing-song— as he practically _dances_ over to the cashier, grinning from ear to obnoxiously pierced ear. "As you may recall."

Ciel does recall. He also recalls the very… _passionate…_ way that Sebastian had beseeched him to wear the ludicrous decoration. Though he hadn't begged, the devil _had_ wound up on his hands and knees in front of him… And what with all of the pleasured purrs that were escaping his lips, anyway, Ciel had thought maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't hurt to make Sebastian happy every once in a while…

Wallet out and purchase bagged, the demon leers, knowing that he has won.

But then he hears the bell-sweet _ting_ of a second register.

"Hey, Sebastian," Ciel coos when his servant glances over, curiosity in his gaze. "Did you realize that they had an Elmo hat to go along with the Cookie Monster one?" He beams nastily as he holds up an equally-fuzzy red hat, ping-pong-ball google-eyes and all. Revenge is a dish best served in the cold, after all. "I think it will match your eyes beautifully. And now _we'll_ match, too, next Sunday."

Pushing himself up to his tiptoes, the boy politely thanks the bewildered cashier and collects his change and plastic sack. And Sebastian, despite his disgust at the idea of putting such an unattractive monstrosity upon his head, can't help but sport a second, softer smile.

"As to be expected of the young master," he quietly chuckles, and the two exchange purchases as they leave the merrily lit store.

**4:32 PM**

_We have still got time,_ Sebastian had said.

A gasp, a groan. Against the cold tiles of the porcelain wall, a bare knee molds and scrambles, balanced atop the toilet paper dispenser. In the aftermath of a perfectly-placed thrust, said knee quivers and jerks, making the contraption's many metal rings and bars clatter-clank-jangle. On the opposite side of the narrow, overheated stall, a second leg is pressed flush against a barrier of flimsy plastic. Like the boy to whom it belongs, the leg scrabbles and scrapes, kept aloft by willpower and friction and tightly-coiled tension, still-booted toes scuffing up the gaudy green paint. Ciel's nails do the same, scouring marks into the door that his palms keep locked, sweat-dappled head lolling between raised arms as he wriggles his uplifted behind; twin moans of pleasure are drowned out by the banging of that door in its jamb, hinges rattling in a rhythmic, desperate, wanton sort of way…

_We could ride your favorite ride again, if you'd like._

**5:09 PM**

"…it's getting rather late, isn't it?" Ciel mutters, attempting off-handedness as he stares coolly through the Ferris wheel's grubby window: out over the throngs and the mess and the winking carnival lights, glittering like multicolored stars in the early evening sky. "The idiot will be getting back to the house, soon."

Sebastian hums his assent, watching his master watch the world. "We are probably pushing our luck as it is," he adds under his breath, a faint frown marring his lovely face. "You know how he feels about me. He will be quite cross with you if he realizes what you do—and who you do it with— when he is working."

"Let him be as cross as he wishes," the young boy grouses, nails sharpening ever-so-slightly as his hand balls into an aggravated fist. "He can hardly do anything about it. If he orders me to stay in the house, I'll summon you there. If he commands that I not see you, I'll simply close my eyes. It's not like I need vision, anyway." He sighs jadedly, resting his tired head against the grimy Plexiglas. "I've become very adept at finding loopholes, Sebastian. And he knows it. The only way he could truly control me on Sundays is if he took me to church with him, but too bad for the coot—I can't enter the damned place."

"And what a pity it is. You would have made such a cute altar boy."

Ciel levels his butler a dry glare, aware that he'd meant to lighten the mood but unable to appreciate that particular brand of humor. "Don't think the old fool hasn't tried," he grumbles, and that shuts Sebastian up right-quick. "Still makes me dress like one, from time to time… if you know what I mean."

With a heavy, disheartened sigh, the little devil allows his voice to trail off, his gaze to sink low. Ebony-tipped fingers loop in his lap, caught snug between his squeezing thighs; with a near-silent _flop_ , Ciel repositions his head—allows it to fall from the window to Sebastian's shoulder.

"Sometimes…" he then admits, his voice a reedy whisper that cracks between soft syllables, "I wish I really _were_ a lost boy." The child offers a despondent smile— bitter laughter in his foolish admission— as he nestles nearer, closing his eyes and sucking down a calming, sweet-scented breath. "I want you to take me home."

The weary profession rips at Sebastian's heart; the aching _desperation_ of it all is echoed in the quiet hiss of affirmation that escapes his lips. Mouth clamped shut against a torrent of shared emotion, Sebastian curls a possessive arm around his master's frail body— hugging him all the closer, all the tighter, in the depression-tinged hush of their two-person cart.

" _Soon_ ," he quietly promises, pressing a butterfly kiss against his charge's forehead. "We'll go home together soon, Ciel."

The ride is soothing and slow, but ends far too fast.

**5:31 PM**

"Same time next week?"

"Of course. Oh, wait, next Sunday is a perish retreat… let's meet a mite earlier, shall we? At 7?"

"As you wish," Sebastian purrs, and he grins because Ciel isn't the only one who wishes it. Like many other parting couples, they hold hands beside the kitschy fountain—swinging interlaced fingers back and forth, back and forth between them. It is a silly gesture, as senseless as it is stupid… but Sebastian has come to appreciate such inanities in recent years. Perhaps he is going soft. Or perhaps he has simply learned to treasure any time he gets to spend with Ciel. "Though the park does not open until 8."

"I'm certain we can find _some_ way to entertain ourselves until then," the boy decrees, gracing his butler with a suggestive, quirky smile. "For instance, I could wear my new hat. That will keep you entertained until the park _closes,_ I'm sure."

"It is your fault for being so endearing," Sebastian retorts, brushing his nose against Ciel's in a velveteen Eskimo kiss. The temperature has dropped along with the sun; now, even the demon's hellfire skin is riddled with ice. His master shivers… but it is only partly from the chill. "Be careful on your way back. Call if you need me, your master be damned."

"Oh, he already is," the child flippantly replies, in the distracted tones of one who is busy with other, more important thoughts. Thoughts that—after a brief pause—he chooses to share.

"Sebastian, I've been thinking, recently. That is, for the past hundred years, or so." He hesitates, as if waiting for approval to continue; his companion gives it with a subtle, prompting nod. "I've gone through a fair share of Contracts, now. I've had all manner of tamer. And I've come to realize that… well, I don't treat them like you treated me. That is to say—even at your worst, you always seemed to… to care. Sometimes I think of that moment on the Isle, back before… everything that happened… and how you acted at the end. Or what we then thought was the end. I'm never that kind. Ever. And I don't see a reason to be."

Ciel clears his throat with an awkward cough, their woven hands coming to a gradual halt. Sebastian, in turn, blinks once, faintly bewildered by this impulsive and utterly unexpected monologue. Admittedly, he is also intrigued—both by this aberrant speech, and by the blush that has steadily crept up the little one's throat: staining from chin to the tips of his ears.

"It was then that I came to realize that… that even back then, you _felt_ something for me. You weren't just pretending like I thou… anyway. You felt something for me, just like I felt something for you— something I didn't want to name or acknowledge. And even decades later, after we started… um, that is to say, only the brainless state the obvious, you know? It would be a waste to say what we both already knew, I guess. But… I don't know, maybe it's because my master has forced us to spend so much time apart, but… But I thought, maybe—even though it's dumb— I could tell you how I feel… since I'm not around to _show_ you much, anymore."

Explanations done, oration over, Ciel gulps down a deep, noisy, bracing breath—

And then furiously shakes his head, embarrassed features burgundy in the twilight glow of the January moon. He steels himself; he tries again. The child's parted lips quiver (much like his petite fists), but he can dislodge no words from the back of his throat; he mouths soundlessly for a spell, clearly feeling stupider and stupider as he does so.

In the wake of it all, Sebastian chuckles. The poor thing is trying so hard… "My lord, you do not have to strain yourse—"

"Shut up and give me a moment!" Ciel snaps, writhing—as if in agony—as he bounces from foot to booted foot. "I can do this. I _want_ to do this. I'm _going_ to do this. Alright. I… I lo… —oh, _bother_!"

A rushing of wind, a flurry of feathers. Despite himself, Sebastian can't keep from jolting in surprise, visibly startled when he notices that he is, quiet suddenly, alone beside the fountain. Well, that is not completely true. There are still other tourists around, of course, but his young master is nowhere to be seen. In his stead, a sleek black crow has perched itself upon his shoulder, onyx head cocked and beady eyes bright. With a bitty squawk and a beat of his wings, the crow shuffles over to the far right, open beak mere centimeters from Sebastian's waiting ear…

A whisper reverberates in his head, flustered but sincere. And the three simple words make Sebastian's secret heart flutter, nerves buzzing with electricity and warmth despite the bite of frost in the air. In the aftermath of his mortifying declaration, the shy little fledgling spares an instant for an affectionate nuzzle, then soars off into the night— cawing out a congratulatory phrase that makes the other pause.

Momentarily bewildered, the remaining devil counts out the days of the New Year on his hands.

That's right. Today is the fourteenth, isn't it?

"…oh, young master," a touched Sebastian breathes, grinning so widely that he fears his face will break. It certainly feels as if it might, tingling as it is… Or maybe his cheeks burn for another reason entirely. With a sidelong glance at his reflection in the fountain pool, the demon's suspicions are confirmed; a telling splash of color has dyed his features an exultant shade of pink. How undignified. But still… "It was, indeed, a very happy anniversary."

_I love you, too._

And with a final, tickled chuckle—morphing, like its maker, into an avian cackle— Sebastian, too, takes flight.

**XXX**


	2. Inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was inevitable, really, that they should meet again.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, like always.

**Author's Note:** I misread some of the fanfic that I was editing for Sky Michaels, and my misunderstanding resulted in this. Funny how often that tends to happen… *pointed look at "Opus"*

**Warnings:** Takes place (long) after the ending of season II. The usual fail editing. There's other stuff I should probably say, but that would spoil my fun, and no one reads these things, anyway. XD

**XXX**

**Inevitable**

**XXX**

It was inevitable, really, that they should meet again. Of the hundreds of thousands of millions of humans—or human-shaped monsters—that skittered and scattered, crawling atop the surface of this decaying earth, only a handful were cursed with the promise of immortality. With an eternity to squander and only a very small world in which to spend it, statistically, he should have realized that they would wander into one another, sooner or later. And although he isn't sure if this counts as "sooner" or "later" (it is rather difficult to judge, when time no longer has meaning), he does know that it is a Tuesday afternoon, gray and bitter—December, dead, and dreary. The bare branches of the potted trees that line the road are trying to scrape the clouds from the sky; he considers scraping at his eyes, hardly daring to believe what he sees.

But there the boy (or boy-thing) stands, looking just as he did That Day so many centuries ago… only thinner, perhaps. Gaunter. Corpse-white and paper-thin and all the more beautiful for it, his cobalt-blue eyes churning and shifting and shining like the ocean that laps against the not-so-distant coast. Though the wind is vicious and vigorous today, the child-creature's bare hands hang outside of his coat pockets—brittle little icicles of skin tipped with black, glossy and rotten. His silver-spun hair looks like silk in the shadows, and his poise and posture are posh and perfect; he doesn't so much as _sway_ as the torrent of busy business men, of working women, of speeding students, of chattering children bump-brush-bang into him, as if oblivious to the _presence_ that he exudes.

Well, perhaps they are. But he isn't.

They have been gazing at each other for a full five minutes, now. Unblinking. Unmoving. The child-creature seems unsurprised, all things considered… had certainly reacted more subtly than he had. For the briefest of moments upon first noticing each other, the boy-thing's eyes had widened the scantest half-millimeter, flashing vermillion in the afterglow of a passing car. In the next instant, the predictability of the situation seemed to have registered in his brain, and he has since been regarding his gawking companion with an imperturbable, impassive sort of stare.

But then…

"…would you care for some tea?" the boy-thing asks coolly. Casually. As if they were nothing more than two friends, serendipitously bumping into one another after a boring week apart. And perhaps they are, really. Who's to know, when time no longer has meaning?

**X**

The child-creature (he isn't quite sure what to call him, yet) knows of a place, a fancy place, with lush carpets and velvet draping and crystal chandeliers. Light is cast by bulbs and candles in equal measure, and the warm air is scented with white rose and gardenia, just like the gardens of the past. Though it is clearly a restaurant for society's _crème de la crème_ , the boy-thing he follows garners a table with a simple snap of his frosted fingers. And if his irises glimmer scarlet in the process, well, he tries to only half-notice.

The maître de leads them to a square, cherry wood table dripping in doilies and lace and ivory linens, where tiny cups of bone china are already waiting. One Wedgewood beauty almost looks as if it's breathing: thin, vine-like plumes of ethereal mercury swirl steadily skyward, melting the chill from the tip of his nose and the apple of his cheeks. The second delicate dish is empty, and it is this seat that the boy-thing chooses. He crosses skinny ankles, positions himself regally atop the plush velveteen cushion, and tastes the air with the tip of his tongue.

As he exhales, a small smile graces his petal pink lips. "It is a lovely scent, don't you agree?"

He would agree, could he find his voice. He isn't sure where he had lost it, but he wishes for its return post-haste. In the meantime, he forces his stiffened neck to nod (spine creaking unwillingly) and—when gestured to do so— lifts his drink to his maw with the lightest, gentlest, most careful of his touches. His stomach is full of butterflies that even the cloying flavor of jasmine cannot drown; his hands tremble around his cup for more reasons than he can count.

"You look wonderful," the child-creature says mildly, but he is not entirely sure if that is meant to be a compliment. There is something like _pity_ in the boy-thing's mismatched eyes, something like _understanding_ ; he takes an elegant sip of nothingness. "Who would have thought that a human could look so healthy at the age of two hundred and seventeen?"

In response, he shifts atop his pillowed seat: fidgets, visibly antsy, as if he can't quite get _comfortable,_ despite all of the luxury around him. But finally, when he opens his mouth, the faintest wisp of a whisper comes tumbling out— tired, worn, and weary. "That's just it," he murmurs, staring sightlessly into his teacup. The pallid liquid ripples in his grasp, pulsing in time to his shivering heartbeats. "I'm starting to think that… that perhaps I'm _not_ human, anymore."

"…hm." The child-creature hums, vague and noncommittal, as he regards his downcast companion. "Well," he then returns, dipping a petite spoon into perfumed oxygen and giving it a crisp stir. "It is a fact we all must face, sooner or later."

**X**

"Would you tell me what happened next?"

They are on the street again, footsteps echoing through the alleys as they trample atop elongated silhouettes: people, animals, buildings. Their casters are no more real to them than the shades themselves; they are solid, unaffected, even as time stretches and compresses and contorts the gloomy figures that lie beneath their feet. It is a dark fate. But if it was dark before, it is darker now; streetlamps sputter on, leaving patches of luminescent gold upon the shush-strewn sidewalks.

"What is there to say? We lived and died as best we could. Only they did the latter better than me."

A quiet laugh, like muffled music in the mind. "You were always earnest," the boy-thing chuckles, flicking his companion a half-lidded glance of sneered affection, "but never skilled. Not at any job."

He considers being insulted. Instead, he returns the smile. And though the expression is rusty with age, dusty from disuse, when it creeps across his mouth, he feels more like himself than he has in many long, lonely years.

**X**

He isn't sure where they are going—if his companion has a destination in mind, or if he is even meant to follow. But he has nowhere else to be, and no reason to fear ill-will, so he follows at length, and when his presence doesn't seem to bother the child-creature, eventually becomes comfortable trailing along in his wake. So comfortable, in fact, that he feels a question leap from his lips before he can stop it.

"What happened to _you_?" he asks, and he is not quite sure if it is fear, or awe, or trepidation that thrums in his voice. Maybe it is a combination of two. Or maybe it is all three: a curious chord, taut yet quivering, like the strings of a singing instrument. "After you left with… what happened? Why did you go?"

In reply, the boy-thing hesitates—both in word and in deed— as he considers the other's query. But soon, the sound of decisive, efficient footfalls recommences; he stares into the metropolitan night and chews on a sigh. "I didn't wish to hurt you."

Incomprehensible silence.

"Hunger is a disease," the boy-thing expounds… though, in truth, this explanation is no more informative than the first. "Unremitting and terminal. And, in so being, is more virulent and vexing than any potion or poison that runs through your veins."

"Hunger?" He frowns, the paradigm of innocent confusion. "If you're hungry, you should have eaten something… back at the… restaurant…"

He falters, he finishes; the child-creature is laughing again, low and black and amused. Like sugary molasses, sticky, sweet, and ensnaring… He feels uncomfortably _caught_ in the candy-coated sound, twitching like a moth trapped in a fluting web of snickers.

"Mine is a hunger that conventional foodstuffs will never slake," he purrs in way of clarification, and offers no more answer than that. But he doesn't need to, not really, for his eyes are flickering again: feral and feline, flecked with shards of flaming ruby.

And though he isn't sure if he believes in God anymore, (not after all this time, not after all he's seen) he is suddenly quite convinced of the existence of the Devil.

**X**

Their feet come to a stop before a snow-covered house, ranch-styled and tangled in a net of wilted ivy. No light peeks through the latticed windows, only a crucifix of aged wood; the man strung upon its beams watches the world with sad, grainy eyes, and half-looks as if he is trying to pound down the glass. As the dying idol pleads mutely with those unfortunate enough to stroll past, serrated bricks of wall and chimney seem to crumble and molder like incense and ash.

"Do you live here by yourself?" he can't help but demand, tone tinted with concern, for no matter the reality of the situation, the boy-thing beside him looks like… well, just that. But even as he asks, the child-creature is shaking his head, a look of unvoiced contempt slithering upon his porcelain face.

"I live here with my master."

"Your… what?" Another frown, deeper this time—more of a scowl than anything, indigent in its bewilderment. "But aren't you…? I mean, shouldn't _you_ be the…?"

"Oh, I am. Eventually. In the end." The boy-thing sighs flippantly, with a pretty tweak of pouted lips. "But regrettably, I have not yet reached that point with this monster."

For a moment, rather than consider the gravity of the child-creature's situation, he ponders the paradoxical choice of insult. Of "monster." For really, if there are any in the world fit to be labeled by such a word, it would be—

"Finny, a monster is something that I wouldn't want to see under my bed," the boy-thing drawls, rolling his eyes as he seemingly reads his companion's thoughts. "And while to find you in such a place would undoubtedly startle me, I think I would be more frightened of my slippers."

Finny starts. Blinks. Then grins, unable to quash the mental image that blossoms in the back of his fanciful brain. Nor can he smother the giggles that bubble and burst in the back of his aching throat… or the tears that burn and boil behind his glassy green eyes. Because _yes_ , that was just what he'd so longed to hear—and of course, if anyone was to know what he needed, it would be…

"Thank you, young master," he warmly whispers, running a fleece sleeve over his winter-flushed cheeks. "And, though it isn't my place, I'd just like to tell you that I think the s—!"

But when he turns to share a glance with Ciel, he finds that his companion has vanished. He is alone on the walkway, blanketed in blackness; there is nothing in the world but himself, the wind, and a single, bead-eyed crow, watching the motionless house from the branches of an evergreen. The reticent bird spares Finny a fleeting, familiar glance before returning to its sentry, shaking a wing in a dismissive gesture.

The blonde can (ironically) no longer muster the strength to be surprised. But that doesn't keep a final grin from tugging on the corners of his mouth, nor a chortle from tripping off his tongue. Time has no meaning, but it has been too long… even if it only feels like yesterday. All the same…

"Right, right, I'll return to my work," he mumbles, sniffling around a beam as he spins away. There is no need to be sad, after all; this may be farewell for now, but in a world as small as this… well. They would meet again soon. "Goodnight, Mr. Sebastian."

**XXX**


	3. Five Thousand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five pictures, two devils, one question.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

 **Author's Note:** I decided that this fandom was in need of more fluff. :3

 **Warnings:** SebaCiel. Fail editing. Sap. Inspired by an adorable picture by Aseera. This idea is more visually based; if I'd had time, I would have doujin-ed it. As it is, this probably reads kinda oddly. OOC I'm sure, but I don't care, 'cause this is part of the "Bicentennial" universe ("Bicentennial" and "Inevitable") where everything is happy. :'D On that note, you should probably read both of those before reading this.

 **Dedication:** For Askee, since my decision about fluff was partially due to her work— and also because it's her birthday soon; Hannah, who so much wanted me to return to this universe— I'm sorry this isn't IZ fanfiction, eh heh; and Nene, because I always think of her Sebastian and Ciel when writing for this universe. :'D

**XXX**

**Five Thousand**

**XXX**

8:43 AM.

The demon glowered darkly, mismatched eyes narrowing in irritation as he growled at his cell phone's luminescent display. Predictably, this reaction didn't help the situation, nor did it make him look particularly sane to those around him, but he didn't care; he may have rationally realized that the time (and, by extension, his companion's tardiness) was not the fault of his blackberry, but he'd never put much stock in the "don't shoot the massager" adage. With a snarl, the little one tightened his small, onyx-tipped fingers around the plastic contraption, his expression daring the phone to permit the minutes to march onward. The sleek, ebony device—groaning in protest inside of its master's tightening fist— retaliated to this abuse by allowing "8:44 AM" to pollute its LED screen. Behind his back, the theme park's decorative fountain gurgled as if in laughter.

Ciel responded to the mocking of both inanimate objects with a feral snarl, pallid face colored by anger and embarrassment. Even still, he wasn't a tot of one hundred anymore, and he refused to throw a tantrum; buying new phones got to be expensive… he could only imagine how much replacing a fountain would cost. With a measured intake of breath, the boyish devil tried to calm himself down and soothe his hurt feelings with level-headedness. Sure, he was finally free. Sure, he had thought that would mean something to Sebastian. Sure, he'd assumed that today would be special. But maybe Sebastian had gotten an emergency call from work. Maybe Finny had broken something important. Maybe he didn't feel like flying and had taken the bus, instead. Maybe he'd gotten hurt. Maybe an old enemy had—

Ciel's pursed lips thinned all the more. Somehow, sagacity wasn't helping him feel any better. It really wasn't like Sebastian to be late— not by so much as a second, and certainly not on Sundays. Hell, he'd presumed that his companion would have gotten to the park _early_ : today was a day of celebration and feasting, a rarity for the two of them; in the base of his being, he could feel his "master's" sweet-and-sour soul swirling and curling and coiling away, awaiting true consumption. It wasn't a wholly comfortable feeling to start off with— something akin to heartburn, he'd imagine— and to add to that this unexpected anxiety over Sebastian's whereabouts and safety…

The petite creature shifted atop the fountain ledge, hooking one booted foot behind the other. Despite the warmth of the early July sun, he felt a shiver shoot down his hunched spine as he and his phone engaged in a second stare-down. For a few moments, his wallpaper— a surreptitiously taken photo of a certain crow in an evergreen tree— gazed back, but the image soon faded to energy-conserving black.

Ciel's frown deepened. 8:45 AM.

This was ridiculous.

Sliding the phone open to reveal its bitty keyboard, the once-child was just about to shoot his servant an annoyed text when— to his visible surprise— his own text tone chimed through the tourist riddled enclosure. That was… suspiciously convenient. Though not unwelcomed. And really, Sebastian had always had excellent timing… Swiping a thumb across the screen to cut short Vanessa Mae's "The Devil's Trill," Ciel found a single message waiting for him in his inbox; his heart both hardened and fluttered when he saw the sender's name. " _Finally_ ," he muttered to himself, biting on the corners of his lips to keep from smiling in relief. "Took you long enough, Sebastian…"

But even as he spoke— even as he moved his finger to open the note— he couldn't quash a growing feeling of confusion. The message's subject line wasn't "I'm on my way" or "sorry for taking so long" or anything along those predictable lines. Instead, it was the rather cryptic declaration "This was taken in France." And although Ciel really hadn't had any idea of what to expect from a letter with such a prelude, a photograph of the sky wouldn't have been his first guess. But that was what he got. Bright cerulean, a few wisps of cloud, a blinding white ray of mid-morning sun.

Nothing more than a photo of the sky.

"…what the f—?" Blinking rapidly, the tiny demon regarded the unanticipated image for a spell, tilting his screen this way and that— as if readjusting his monitor might reveal some secret truth. But no. It really was just what it looked liked. Why it had been sent to him was anyone's guess. It was so disconcerting and generally _bizarre_ that for a full minute, Ciel was too distracted by perplexity to remember that he was supposed to be mad. But eventually, the frustration of such an enigmatic message reminded him of his previous discontent, and the irritation flared back up again with a renewed passion.

 _Sebastian,_ Ciel pounded into the keyboard, gritting his teeth in concentration, _I know that you're old, but I didn't realize you were senile. The amusement park isn't in France, and neither should you be!_ He half-considered ending this rebuke with some sort of threat (and he had quite a few potent ones rolling around in his mind), but even as he added an exclamation mark to his response, his phone rang in notification of another new letter.

Blowing out his cheeks, the once-child tapped the "send" key— perhaps a wee bit harder than was entirely necessary— and returned to his inbox to find Sebastian's second note. This one lacked any sort of subject line, but now that he was looking for it, he did notice that there was an attachment listed. Blandly wondering if he'd been sent an accompanying picture of the grass, Ciel dutifully selected and opened the file—

" _Holy—!_ "

Only to yelp and drop his phone, cursing as it clattered against the brick-inlayed ground. "What on ea—? If the facing is cracked, you're paying for the repairs, you bastard," Ciel grumbled bitterly. Even as he did so, though, he felt rather stupid; like most, he tried not to make a habit out of talking to people who weren't there. But then, maybe this feeling of mortification came more from his unnecessarily violent reaction; there was no need for dramatics, and that had certainly been a show. Of course, in his defense, he hadn't really been expecting a close-up of William T. Spears to appear before his eyes, all pinch-faced and grimacing. What was worse: the reaper looked faintly bedraggled and bleary eyed, as if he'd just woken up… or if he hadn't slept at all, if the faint flash of burgundy behind him was anything to go by.

Ciel choked back the feeling of bile, his own face scrunching in bewilderment as he scooped his phone off of the ground. He assumed that the picture itself came from a few weeks ago; Sebastian had mentioned casually that some of the death gods were crashing in his apartment, since hotels were expensive and there was going to be a particularly devastating fire in the area within the next few days. (And there was. It rather made Ciel's mouth water.) As for the photo of the sky (if it really was from France), it had likely been taken half a year earlier, when his former master had dragged him on a mission trip to that corner of the globe. When he'd asked why, the old coot had told him that they were to "covert the hell-bound masses in Aix-en-Provence," and he had to come along because "I don't want you running amok while I'm away, you cheeky minx." Not that Ciel had really given a damn for his reasons… his only concern had been figuring out a way not to die of heartache and boredom over the course of a month. But then, to his unparalleled delight, the stranger who'd been assigned the seat beside him on the airplane had been none other than Sebastian, who'd managed to sneak onto the trip roster and up the number of cheeky minxes to two. Gussied up in the guise of a female parishioner, all long dark hair and modest high heels, even Ciel's leery tamer hadn't thought to be suspicious of such a sweet girl, and that had worked quite well to their advantage. In the end, it was a delightful holiday in which the pair was left greatly alone, as neither was capable of entering the succession of churches that the rest of the parish visited. Sebastian had joked that the vacation was almost like a honeymoon, wasn't it— tasting delicacies; holding hands; kissing in shadowed corners; _no, Sebastian, you're disguised as a woman right now— that means you have to play the part in_ all _situations_ … And he did, of course he did, with feminine hitched gasps and throatier moans of pleasure as he dug manicured fingers into the back alley wall…

A third text tone snapped Ciel from his dreamy recollections, and it was just as well; he didn't particularly want to finish that train of thought in such a public place. Flushing scarlet and readjusting his legs, he glanced down at his phone to find a picture of an ewe waiting to greet him.

…screw it. He wasn't even going to ask.

Sighing, he clicked out of the newest note and resigned himself to waiting for the next, dropping his chin into an upturned palm. As he did so, he allowed his half-lidded eyes to skim over the innocuous looking blackberry, tapping one slender digit rhythmically against its ridged backside. Maybe it was Sebastian's plan to befuddle him into pacification. If that was so, it was certainly working; he couldn't bring himself to feel cross when so distracted by exasperation. Seriously, what in Satan's name was going through his butler's mind? What did these silly jpegs have to do with one another, and what did _all_ of this have to do with Sebastian and his failure to be here? Was this meant to be a game? A riddle?

Lightly biting his tongue between sharp teeth, Ciel's brow furrowed as he once-again regarded the collection of photographs in his inbox. The sky, a shinigami, a sheep. Whatever way he twisted it, he couldn't come up with any correlation between the three… well, apart from starting with an "s," he supposed. But this wasn't fucking Sesame Street, despite the hat that he may-or-may-not have brought with him. (Since. You know. It was a special occasion and… ahem. The devil turned beet red and kicked the tote bag at his feet, as if to punish the worn blue cap hidden inside of it.)

"Hmph. The sky in France, huh?" Ciel blew out his cheeks, glancing from the image to the real sky above him. The robin's egg of morning was already fading into the deep sapphire of afternoon, and it reflected beautifully off of his own cobalt irises. "Why would it matter where he took a picture of the sky, anyway? It's the same stupid sky, it just has a different name."

He paused.

_Name?_

Creased forehead smoothing over in sudden realization, the boy felt his insides give a funny squirm— a squirm entirely unrelated to the soul that awaited digestion in the pit of his belly. "… _ciel_?" he whispered to himself, feeling wholly a fool: both for murmuring his own name, and for taking so long to make such an obvious connection. "Is that that what you're aiming at, Sebastian?"

Curiosity further whetted, sparking nerves tingling down his curved back and in the tips of his pale fingers, Ciel scrolled through the unconventional slideshow once more, feeling the gears in his brain whirl and click and grind. "Ciel… William T. Spears? William? …Will. Ciel. Will. Ewe?" He cocked his head, a strange smile of sardonic amusement and incomprehension playing out on his lips. "Figured that was close enough, I imagine. What a useless servant. And that's not even a full sentence. What—?"

But before the once-child could finish _his_ question, Sebastian sent a fourth picture to add to his own. Now that he had more of an idea of what was going on, Ciel found it easier to see the humor in the situation; a bit more willingly this time (and a touch more intrigued), he opened the latest file with a roll of his eyes. Dropping his chin atop propped knees, he regarded the newest piece of the puzzle with an arched brow. On the one hand, it wasn't another picture of livestock or death gods, for which Ciel was thankful; it rather felt like a waste of space to have those photos on his memory card. It did, however, feature more nature—a modest patch of flowers that he recognized. Not long after their initial reunion, Finny had stumbled into Sebastian at one of his many day jobs; for lack of anywhere else to stay, the former gardener had taken up residence in Sebastian's apartment. (Ciel half-wondered if there were any supernatural beings in the area who _hadn't_ spent some time there.) It had been decades since the blonde had considered gardening his profession— not that he'd ever had any right to call himself a professional in the first place— but he kept a teeny plot of land in the communal backyard as a hobby. His thumb still wasn't particularly green, but he managed to grow a few things. Weeds, mostly. Buttery spring dandelions and creeping charlies in the summer. But this year, he'd also had some luck with a collection of sunny marigolds, and it was of this that somebody had taken a photo. It wasn't Sebastian, this time, for Sebastian himself was in the picture: two arms swathed in black were wrapped around the air, as if circling the front portion of the bunch.

Ciel allowed himself a subtle smirk, leaning back on his free hand in an arrogant sort of way. "This isn't so tough," he muttered softly, flippant as he deconstructed the mystery in his head. "By only indicating the first half of the flowers, you want me to only consider the first half of the word, correct? So that—!"

His hooded eyes widened. His mind caught up with his mouth.

"…that…"

_Ciel will you—_

The suddenly-crimson devil barely heard his text tone over the rushing in his ears, the strange thrumming of his heart. When his quivering fingers finally managed to open the final file, for the first time since this game began, he wasn't surprised by what he found. Rather, he somehow felt that he'd known all along. Without pause or hesitation, he clamored trippingly to his feet, only-just remembering to snatch his shoulder bag from the ground before scampering down a well-worn path. At first, he tried his best to remember his manners—he didn't run or push or fight against the crowd— but after a minute or two he tired of politeness and began to pick up speed, shoving when necessary to reach his ultimate goal. Past the merry-go-round and Ferris wheel, roller coaster and hot dog stand; he dashed so quickly around the crossroad corner that he almost crashed into a balloon vendor. But that hardly mattered— nothing mattered. Nothing except…

Except…

Pink in the face and panting pathetically, Ciel stumbled to a halt before an unusually well-loved and recognizable facility. Its familiarity did not simply stem from his and Sebastian's frequent rendezvous in the chipped green stalls (though that was certainly a factor), but also from the final photograph, still glowing on his blackberry's display, which featured the building in question. Even now, Sebastian stood as he had in the picture, with one gloved hand carefully placed over the "n" on the sign for the men's room. Amused and affable, he offered his master a mischievous little grin when their gazes met, tilting his head in question.

"…well?" he then prompted genially, laughter in his purr and affection in his eyes. "What do you say, my lord?"

Ciel had never considered himself a particularly romantic fellow. He wasn't much for pretty phrases or amorous speeches— it had been almost physically impossible for him to spit out those three little words on that long-ago anniversary, and they'd been together for _centuries_ at that point. So really, he didn't have much of anything to _say_ in response to his butler's inquiry… Other than " _you stupid idiot_ ," which he hissed quite vehemently under his breath. But it seemed likely that the severity of his insult was lost in the fervor of his wanton kisses, in the tears that wetted his eyes, in the tug and grind of clothes and crotch. With a trill of half-swallowed delight, stumbling backwards in the wake of a virtual assault, Sebastian fell into the bathroom with barely enough time to stagger into a stall before Ciel had made shreds of his shirt.

He decided to take that as a "yes."

**XXX**


	4. Timetable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A not-so-typical day in the not-so-typical life of a not-so-typical demon.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

 **Author's Note:** It was very difficult not to use the word "derpy" in this fic. XD;

 **Warnings:** SebaCiel, WillxGrell(e). Part of the "Bicentennial" universe (" Bicentennial," "Inevitable," "Five Thousand" ); takes place between "Bicentennial" and "Five Thousand." FLUFF. SO MUCH FLUFF. Arguably OOC, but honestly, I think this is just another interpretation of what _could_ happen to these characters (and to their relationship) over time. Fail editing, because I didn't have time to re-read this monstrosity more than twice. (And because does that, sometimes.) XD; Thank you, as always, to Hannah and Nene for your inspiration!

 **Dedication:** To Maddie, for keeping me smiling. :'D (And because the fic I first started writing for you is currently collecting dust on my laptop, eh heh.)

**XXX**

**Timetable**

**XXX**

**6:23 AM**

Sebastian never felt more human than when he woke up to an alarm clock.

Or so he assumed, anyway. Never having personally been human, that might not have been the fairest of assumptions to make, but he'd observed a sufficient number of rousing-related death-glares over the millennia to have garnered a basic idea as to the average human's typical mood upon waking. To start with, it was generally bad. Sometimes a trifle melancholy as their lids sprung back and their bleary eyes took in the bland whiteness of their ceiling. Oh, and annoyance at the stupid tinny melodies that served as their alarms, of course.

Sebastian never felt any of that. He wasn't drowsy or irritable, and his general outlook wasn't any more or less dreary than it had been the day before. But waking _was_ a bit disconcerting—at least when what stirred him wasn't the pull of Contract— and it always took him a millisecond or two to remember why, exactly, he was being made to get up at all. Peeling his gaze away from the pale expanse above him, he'd flop onto his side and scrounge for his cell phone, steeling himself for his daily game of timetable roulette. If the date listed beside the time correlated to any day between Monday and Saturday, he'd give a sigh and succumb to the bane of all creatures' existence: work. If the display read "Sunday," he'd smile, rake a hand through his hair, and roll out of bed with far more energy than he would have otherwise. Bullet or blank, labor or play, which would it be…?

 _Thursday,_ said the unfeeling phone.

Bang.

Blowing out his cheeks and trying to ignore the usual tinge of disappointment, Sebastian instead took comfort in the glow of his blackberry's wallpaper— a slumbering Ciel with a furry black lump nestled between his shoulder blades. The photo never failed to make the demon grin; the once-boy might have lost his allergies with his humanity, but he still wasn't much of a cat person… so it went without saying that Sebastian's cat adored him.

Speaking of…

"Yes, yes. I hear you, Georgina," Sebastian chuckled, shooting a glance at the closed door. Against the wooden barrier, teeny paws were pounding, serenading a plaintive succession of famished mewls. Clearly, someone wanted him to get off his lazy ass and serve breakfast. With a simultaneous roll of his eyes and his body, the sweatpants-clad devil managed to disentangle himself from the sheets, stretching as he stood to face the day. Through the plastic slats of the window blinds, cheery rays of spring sunshine slipped and spilt, casting golden streaks of light across the white of the walls and carpet. In the back of his mind, he could hear his master's habitual taunt that the splash of color made his bedroom look even more antiseptic than it already did, but as always, he ignored the goad. Mainly because Ciel wasn't there right then, and there was no reason to fight with a memory. Besides, he liked the color white. It reminded him of sin.

Humming cheerfully to himself (as there was no one around to hear him do so), Sebastian pulled the appropriate slacks and shirt from his wardrobe before stepping into the bathroom, laughing quietly when Georgina stuck an ebony paw beneath the door and wriggled it back and forth, beckoning him onward. " _Rrrrr~owwww!_ " she yowled feebly, the very picture of starvation. Such a little actress.

The demon snorted, even as an amused leer touched his lips. "You have no idea what hunger is, you pretty thing," he murmured, twisting the knobs in the shower stall. "You'll survive without breakfast for another twenty minutes."

He closed the bathroom door to the sound of an exasperated hiss.

**6:50 AM**

"Good morning, Mr. Sebastian!"

The sing-song salutation was almost as melodious as the kitchen radio, which was spouting out its usual morning melody of popular pop music and cheesy DJ chatter. Georgina, crouched possessively around a blue glass bowl of kibbles and bits, added a happy baseline of crunching to the whole affair; Sebastian spared her a smile and a stroke before turning his attention to the speaker, sliding into one of the elevated seats behind the island.

"Good morning, Finny," he greeted in return, his voice the usual blend of passive politeness and something-that-one-might- _possibly_ -describe-as legitimate affection. The latter was a recent change in Sebastian character— well, recent to the blonde, anyway, who'd only re-made the once-butler's acquaintance a short time ago— and was something he still wasn't quite used to… But he liked this kinder side of his old colleague, and had no desire to question it. Where it had come from was a mystery much akin to what Sebastian (and the young master, too, for that matter) actually was, but neither were riddles that he was in a rush to solve. There were more important things in his life, now, than wondering what manner of creature he and others were.

Like breakfast, for instance.

"Are you hungry?" Finny chirped from beside the stove, pots and pans and eggs in hand. "I'm going to make omelets today!"

"No, thank you," Sebastian returned genially, though he did drop a chin into his palm and settle down to watch the process. "I don't particularly feel like eating. But you can box up and save my portion for Ronald. He'll be coming by later today to pick up a movie I told him about."

"Why don't you save it for our next Movie Night?" the blonde asked, conversational, as he set about to carefully cutting red peppers to mix in with his eggs. Despite the swiftness of his movements, there was a surety to them; he didn't break as single thing, in his hands or otherwise. The passing of nearly two and a half centuries had seen the boy learn how to control his inhuman strength, and with that hindrance out of the way, he had become surprisingly good at a number of unexpected things. Not gardening, ironically, but at other domestic tasks. Like making omelets, for example. And cleaning and organizing and generally making things look cheerful. It was for that reason (and, alright, perhaps a bit out of nostalgia, pity, and a warmish sort of feeling that he didn't care to name, thank you) that Sebastian had taken the young man off of the streets and offered him a place to stay in exchange for his help around the house. Not that Sebastian couldn't have done it all on his own, if he'd wanted… But he couldn't simply let the boy live there for free. Really, what sort of message would _that_ be sending? "Maybe the rest of us would like to watch it, too."

In response, Sebastian scrunched his thin nose, shooting his companion an accusatory glare. "Much to my chagrin, it seems that certain people fail to appreciate the brilliance that is Gorge Clooney," he sniffed in rebuke, and ignored the fact that it earned him a teasing scoff. In a show of petulance, he plucked a fresh grape from the decorative bowl by his elbow and popped it into his frowning mouth. "Ronald hasn't yet seen _Ocean's 10_. There may still be hope of saving him from his ignorance, unlike the rest of you lot."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Sebastian…"

"Don't you patronize me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Finny beamed, flipping his breakfast with an adroit flick of his wrist. "Either way, it has been a while since the last Bond marathon. Maybe we should have a Movie Night soon, regardless. Didn't you say that the Spears' were coming to spend the night sometime next week?"

"Yes, they are," Sebastian confirmed, "but for work." He chewed, swallowed, and— simply because he was a demon—gave in to the temptation to eat another grape. It popped pleasantly between his teeth, like a ripe and juicy organ. "So Will is certainly going to insist that we all go to bed at some reasonable hour. Like half-past five."

The blonde laughed, his expression as bright as the polka-dot print of his pajamas. "But speaking of the hour and half-past," he segued, "doesn't work start for you at 8:30? Shouldn't you be leaving, soon?"

On impulse, Sebastian checked the face of the chrome watch bound around his wrist, but the numbers he read didn't particularly faze him. He had ways of getting wherever he wanted to go whenever he wanted to be there; it didn't matter when he left. But for the sake of his still-somewhat-mortal image, he figured it wouldn't hurt to get going, anyway. There was no harm in letting his leisurely morning stroll be a bit more leisurely. "Right then. I'll be back early this afternoon. My shift at Wal-Mart got canceled."

"Oh, that reminds me." Setting his frying pan on a side burner, Finny glanced towards the kitty-encrusted memo pad that hung on the refrigerator door, sandwiched between a few photos of Georgina (being cute), Ciel (being equally so), and memoirs of group get-togethers (or what other people might call "blackmail"). "Penny from Rainbow called. She wanted to know if you could switch cashier shifts—her Tuesday for your Sunday."

A scowl. Sebastian immediately shook his head, straightening his shirt and brushing invisible motes of dust from his rear as he stood. "I don't work Sundays. You know that."

The blonde nodded sagely, unsurprised. "Yeah, I know," he sang as he jotted Sebastian's answer down on the memo pad. It went without saying that he'd later return Penny's call. "Never hurts to ask, though."

"You'd be surprised," the devil murmured cryptically, though quietly, as he gathered his things and headed for the apartment door. Finny, blithe and beaming and utterly distracted by his now-finished breakfast, gave him a cheery wave that made it perfectly apparent that he hadn't caught Sebastian's enigmatic reply. Which was just fine by him. This, though, he wanted the blonde to hear, so he raised his voice a level before slipping out into the hall: "Don't destroy anything while I'm gone."

**8:17 AM**

"Good morning, welcome to Wendell's Waffle House! How can I he— oh, it's you guys. To hell with it, then. What do you want?"

Within the somewhat-sticky confines of the lime-colored vinyl booth, a bespeckled man in a tight black suit readjusted his glasses and sniffed loudly, snide and critical. "Typical of vile demon scum," he droned as he did so, leveling the apron-clad Sebastian an accusatory glance. "Manners are foreign to you, aren't they? I should really take your rudeness up with your manager."

"Ah, how heartening to see that the scythe is lodged as firmly up your ass as always," the demon returned merrily, answering the glare with his patented apathetic smile. "But I'd best be careful. It isn't very wise to incur the wrath of the one who handles your food, my dear William."

William snorted, giving his head the subtlest of turns so as to regard the dusty casement. "The day you spit in my food will be your last, Michaelis," he threatened dully, but for the most part his attention had already wandered off, falling instead upon the healthy heap of jams, spreads, and butters that decorated the window ledge, waiting to be slathered atop whatever order he made. "So you just watch yourself."

"Or if that's too much trouble, _I_ wouldn't mind watching you."

Sebastian rolled his eyes at the husky (but relatively innocuous) innuendo, turning to regard the second shinigami. Prior to her flirtations, she had been half-lolled over the plastic tabletop, undulating in an evocative sort of way; by the time she'd actually garnered the devil's notice, she was wincing in pain, pouting as she shot a teary-eyed glance in Will's direction. "Darling!" she whimpered, reaching low to rub at her bruising shin, "Please! You know I _love_ it when you're rough with me, but I can't take you on top of the table. Think of the mess we'd make!"

William, for some reason startled by this reaction, flushed as red as the strawberry jam—an expression that he swiftly hid behind an elevated menu. The lovely young lady returned to smirking at Sebastian, toying at her burgundy pixie cut with manicured fingers.

"Now then. How about a proper greeting— just between us old flames, eh, Sebby-darling?" A pucker of cherry lips, a flutter of mascara-laden lashes.

Sebastian's grin, as per usual, was a permanent fixture, detached and clinical as everybody else's in a customer service job. But behind his lightly closed eyes there hid the teeniest flame of fondness for the reapers he'd known so long; they left a warmth in his torso-region rather akin to what he felt around Finny. Not that he'd ever admit to that… "If you'd be so kind as to recall," he reminded courteously, giving a customary little bow that even two hundred years hadn't seen beaten out of him, "I gave you a proper greeting when I first stopped by your table, Mrs. Spears."

"Mrs…? Oh, how many times must I _insist_ that you call me Grelle, like during the good-old-days?" the red-head cooed, painted mouth curling back into an almost predatory leer. She placed a hand against two of her most prized possessions—her ample bosom—and played with the necklaces there, winking wantonly. "Though reminding me that I'm a married woman merely adds to the _temptation_ doesn't it? The allure of the forbidden, succulent as an overripe apple! Ooo, it gives me _chills_ ~!"

"I believe that would be the result of your husband's death-glare," Sebastian commented dryly, flicking his gaze back towards Will. Indeed, the other's arctic eyes were glowering with all of their ethereal might, cautionary and possessive. Arguably threatening. Or just the punch line to one big joke, depending on who you asked; Grelle merely laughed, slipping a scarlet-tipped hand under the table to… actually, no, the devil didn't particularly want to know what she was planning to do with that hand. "Now, while nothing would give me more pleasure than standing around and chit-chatting all day—except, perhaps, pouring that pitcher of syrup over Will's head— I do have other customers to attend to. Have you decided on an order?"

A thoughtful hum; Grelle skimmed the back of the menu, standing like a wall before Will's face. "All that talk of apples gave me a craving for some," she then giggled, her shoulder moving as if she were gently kneading something that Sebastian couldn't see. In that moment, he was very thankful for the tabletop. "An apple cinnamon muffin for me! And my sweetheart will have his usual, I'm sure."

"One apple cinnamon muffin and one Funfetti Ice Cream Bonanza waffle set," Sebastian repeated (loudly) with a bitty smirk, and he was pleased that the suited reaper found the will-power to shoot him a flush-faced scowl. The demon decided to interpret the blush as one of embarrassment, rather than anything hand-related. "I pity your dentist."

"You have every reason to," Grelle purred with a flash of serrated teeth, but before Sebastian could turn away, she whipped out her free hand and grabbed the back of his apron. "Wait!" she tacked on as she did so, tightening her fist around clumps of coarse jade fabric. (Based on the whimper Will gave, Sebastian was willing to bet that Grelle was _not_ one of those ambidextrous few who could pat her head and rub her belly at the same time. Ouch.) "Waitwaitwait. Before I forget to ask… any developments, hmm? Any progress since our last phone-chat? Have you asked him yet?"

She wiggled a knowing eyebrow, and this time her actions colored _Sebastian's_ pallid complexion: a faint dusting of pink across his cheekbones and nose, warm and flustered. It was Will's turn to look superior now, but his sneers and taunts were cut off by a disjointed squeak of a moan—a verbal reaction to something the demon still couldn't see, thank Satan. With a pointed clearing of his throat, Sebastian lightly extricated Grelle's hand from the bow above his rear and shook his head. "Not yet. I've got a plan, but… it's not the right time. And I haven't made all the preparations."

The shinigami frowned, seemingly torn between fierce disappointed and uncontainable surprised. "That's not like you," she commented, sounding blatantly _accusatory_ beneath the facade of her five-year-old whine. "What's taking you so long? It might be _years_ before I have a daughter, and I have too many wedding ideas to keep them all bottled up for much longer! Not to mention that my boobs are at their perkiest right now; I want to show 'em off in a bride's maid outfit before I get all floppy!"

Sebastian wasn't sure if he should be amused by Grelle's antics or quietly disgusted by them; he settled for chuckling uncomfortably as Will muttered something about an alternate way his wife could show off her cleavage, if she so desired. The demon did his best not to catch what his suggestion was.

"As much as I'd love to accommodate your breasts," the devil said smoothly, silently contemplating how he'd never thought such a phrase would ever leave his lips, "asking him right now wouldn't do me any good. He's somewhat… fettered at the moment, as you may or may not remember."

"…oh. Right." The redhead's childish mope smoothed into something serious and dark, vibrant eyes narrowing behind the stylish maroon rims of her glasses. "I forgot about that bastard." She sighed grandly, scrubbing at the side of her head as she flopped more comfortably backwards. "As a reaper, I know I shouldn't say this… But as far as I'm concerned, that guy deserves to have his soul eaten." She sighed again, and when she sensed that her husband was about to spew out some sort of calculated rebuke, she twisted her hand in a meaningful sort of way; behind the menu, William shuddered as the tips of his ears glowed crimson.

Grelle's solemn expression melted into a buttery beam. "Do you have any extra napkins?" she asked sweetly, grinning all the more widely when Sebastian turned green.

**1:07 PM**

Sebastian left work as he always did— serenaded by the lustful goodbyes of his co-workers, who would tell him in dreamy afterthought where the kids that the restaurant had served that day had stuck him with pieces of pancake and peanut butter. There was a time when picking bits of human food out of his hair had filled the devil with unspeakable rage— he still had his pride, after all, and he was once a Big Deal down in the Circles. But that had been a different time, a different place, a different name, and as the decades had worn on, he'd found a strange sort of comfort in the day-to-day interactions between mortals. He'd Fallen, after all, because he and his brethren were more attune to humans than the other angels; the more he lived among them, the more that feeling of kinship grew. True, in the back of his mind, he could never quite quash the thought of how unfair it was that those he serviced should get to eat so plentifully while he served and starved… but those were issued worked out long ago, back when horse-drawn carriages would have still been moseying down these potholed American streets.

Without wholly realizing it, Sebastian found himself loitering beside a window display, staring at a transparent reflection that wore a silly little smile. Unsurprising, he figured, considering where his thoughts had drifted… And the toys and confections beyond the glass did nothing to quash his juvenile expression, either. Though it operated under a different name these days, the Funtom company continued to produce the highest quality children's items on the market, and it was a fact that Ciel (and, to an extent, Sebastian) took a modicum of pride. Not that they really had much to do with the company anymore, seeing what they were… But they still got a trickling of royalties, and it was easy enough to hide behind an email address when Ciel decided he didn't like where something was going. Though he didn't often have time to use it, he held influence and sway via the company's legacy laws (something Ciel himself had written into the legalities back in the day), and in a pinch, it wasn't difficult to pretend to be his own distant relative. But for the most part, the company seemed to be doing well enough on its own, and Ciel didn't particularly care for reminders of his human past. Though he'd never admit it, it tended to depress him.

Of course, that was neither here nor there. It wasn't the toys—intriguing though they were—that had truly garnered Sebastian's attention. Rather, it was the small collection of jewelry beside the mechanized dolls, glittering in the sunlight and leaving rainbow kisses on the ruffles and lace of the china beauties. Tilting his head a bit to the left, he considered one ring in particular: a modest silver band decorated with a sapphire of the deepest blue. It was dainty and tasteful and although it'd been centuries since Ciel had last worn a ring, sometimes his fingers moved as if he wanted to play with one... Sebastian bit his lower lip, cursing the heat that he could (again) feel pooling atop his cheeks as he pondered over whether or not it was even appropriate to buy his young master an engagement ring. To start, he was a servant. It was also a somewhat feminine thing to do, wasn't it, to wear such a band. And lastly—not to mention the most crippling thought of all— what if he offered, and Ciel said "no?" Ciel might think that the whole idea of marriage was a waste of time, since really, they were already dedicated to one another for eternity. It was difficult to top an unholy covenant.

 _But that Contract was one of obligation,_ Sebastian reminded himself firmly, stuffing his hands more deeply into the pockets of his leather jacket. _This one would show him that I actually_ want… _well. Anyway._

Anyway, he didn't have the money right now; anyway, Ciel was still working for their next meal; anyway, he had other things to do besides stand around and daydream. Sighing deeply, the devil turned away from the display and continued walking towards home. Well, what he considered home.

Not the apartment.

**1:49 PM**

"Oh my, would you look at that? In my carelessness, it seems I left the window open and a little crow has snuck in."

Atop the ivy-draped windowsill, said crow shuffled from foot to scaly foot, head cocked and beady eyes bright. In their black-pearl reflection, a devil of silver and moonstone chortled in silence, azure gaze gleaming scarlet in recognition and delight. Leaning against an old-fashioned wicker broom, the boy-creature grinned beneath a shroud of pure darkness—coils of magic and essence that cloaked him from hoary head to booted foot. That was what the bird saw, at least. The mirror across the room, however, bore the image of a prepubescent girl-child, mussed blonde curls held up by ribbons and blithe emerald eyes all scrunched in glee. Around her slight, fragile form was wrapped a single frilly apron; it just barely covered what it needed to in front, and hid absolutely nothing in the back. Sebastian couldn't help but wonder if his poor tamer was cold.

"I'm sorry, little crow," said tamer cooed, in the honey-sweet voice of a cousin long dead. "But I'm afraid my master hates all of the birds and animals that his precious Savior made. Were he to find you, he'd pluck your feathers for a pillow. He may be sleeping right now, but who knows when he'll wake? And I simply haven't the time to play with you."

The crow seemed to consider this, ruffling its ebony feathers. Then—

_Is it part of your Contract to speak like a Disney princess, then?_

Ciel snorted loudly, crudely— an uncouth sort of sound that was in great juxtaposition to the alabaster beauty of both faces that he wore. But when he spoke, it was in the same sugar-spun tones as before. "In this house, it is my duty to be my master's every dream and nightmare. Some days, he tires of me as I am, and I must come to him as someone else."

A moment of deliberation. … _dare I ask if_ my _face is part of your repertoire?_

"My master has no interest in old men," Ciel purred in return, and his eyes glittered with wicked laughter when the bird flapped an angry wing, as if trying to bat the familiar insult away.

 _I'm not an old man!_ Sebastian groused with an avian squawk, but the complaint was clearly half-hearted; his lord's muffled giggling was the best salve he could ask for, and his pride hadn't really been all that wounded in the first place. _Especially when compared to others in this place._

Another chuckle, butterfly lashes lowering in vague amusement. "Indeed," the small demon agreed, crouching beside the sill and resting his head against its watery April warmth. "And if I might take the liberty to tack o—"

But whatever it was that he'd wanted to add would remain a mystery, it seemed, for at that moment the peace was shattered by a great, clattering thud from the room directly below. There was a sonorous cry of bellowed alarm; Ciel looked torn between smugness and trepidation as a long string of crashes and bangs and insults echoed from the bowels of the house. Sebastian figured he didn't want to know what sort of prank his master had pulled, or what kind of punishment he'd be receiving as a result, but at the same time—

"Shit. I mean, crap. I mean, darn it, that happened sooner than expected," the girl-creature cursed, standing with a crackle of chiffon and a swish of her broom. Already the floor beneath them was shaking— the rhythmic tremble of somebody charging up a set of steps. From what Sebastian had observed, the ranch-styled house didn't have many stairs to speak of, so the damned priest's charging had apparently been hampered by something. Even still, Ciel appeared fairly anxious to get his butler out the window, waving his arms in a frantically dismissive gesture so that he could at least close the drapes. When Sebastian remained stubbornly seated, Ciel blew out his cheeks and swept down to place a swift kiss upon the tip of that bolshie beak.

"I'll be fine. We demons heal quickly, you know," his tamer reminded, voice firm and insistent. "It would hurt me _more_ if the coot found you here in this form. There are only so many loopholes to orders. _Go_."

With an emphatic shove, the little devil heaved the crow from its comfortable perch, slamming the window shut just in time to muffle the smash of a door and a barrage of furious screams. Sebastian half-tried to pick out what was being said, but it was rather tricky; he hadn't been expecting Ciel to push him, and had consequently found himself tangled in the rosebushes outside, rather than airborne. But if nothing else, it served as good cover, and he was certain that the prick of flower thorns didn't hurt nearly as much as whatever it was his young master was enduring…

Inside, the sound of shouts and scuffles; outside, the bushes shrieked and shivered as the devil tried to escape the budded branches' snare. It likely sounded very herculean and dramatic from a distance, Sebastian mused, but there remained something fairly pathetic about the cat who eventually emerged from the shrubbery, covered in prickers and smelling faintly of maple syrup.

With a histrionic and whole-hearted hiss, Sebastian flashed the house his teeth and claws before scampering away, wincing every-other step.

**2:05 PM**

"Do I even want to know how this happened?"

"Probably not," Sebastian droned, flinching as Finny tugged a particularly well-wedged thorn from the center of his back. At usual, the doting blonde tried to insist upon balm and bandages, but gave up when the devil's wounds disappeared almost before he'd tended to them. "And even if you did, I am not sure I would oblige."

"Betcha I can guess what happened." There was a snort from the other side of the open fridge door, muffled by Tupperware and cans of cheap beer. "Romeo got kicked off the balcony by Juliet. Am I right?" He guffawed at his own joke, and popped the tab from a beer can with a _crack_ and an effervescent fizzle.

"Oh, you went to see the young master?" Finny smiled, knowing. Sebastian, in turn, leveled the unseen speaker in the adjacent room a bitter glare.

"And what exactly are you still doing here, Ronald?" he called from the armchair, his tone so perfectly neutral that it could only be masking a sulk. "You've got your vide— _ow_ —o. Go home and watch it."

"Can't. Forgot to pay the bill. They turned off my power!" the reaper sang as he leapt out of hiding, his spirits oddly high for someone without electricity in his place. The demon half-wondered if absentmindedness was the real reason, or if he'd spent the entirety of his paycheck on posh clothes again; the high-fashion brand names adoring his polo shirt, slacks, and vest would suggest so. Or maybe This Week's Girlfriend had caught him fooling around and kicked him out. All seemed likely scenarios. Which one was true, however, was anyone's guess; the only thing Sebastian knew for sure was that the shinigami was helping himself to grapes and liquor and was throwing some leftover eggs in the microwave, settling himself atop the island as if he owned the place.

"How many times must I ask you to use a chair?" Sebastian sighed, cringing again as Finny yanked a thorn from—what felt like—the center of his spine. "And couldn't you just flirt your way out of paying, like you always do?"

"No. They sent a guy this time," Ronald lamented, in a pity-me tone that earned him no points with the-demon-who-had-a-boyfriend. Finny didn't look particularly moved, either, but still offered the death god a sympathetic pat on the arm when Ronald meandered past to find a spot upon the leather couch. When he did so, the blonde also took the liberty of stealing away the plate of eggs, because he knew how Sebastian felt about people eating in his living room. For a moment, Ronald's pout deepened with a whine, his pining gaze following Finny (and the food) out of the room. Then (by the look of him) he seemed to forget about everything bad that had ever happened since the dawn of time, instead devoting his energy to flashing the devil a meaningful leer. "So how _is_ the Capulet princess?"

"Funny you should call him that," Sebastian murmured under his breath, remembering the day's guise. (Not that he bothered explaining the joke, choosing instead to ignore the confusion that lightly etched itself upon Ronald's face. Annoying, yes—but he _was_ a devil.) "Anyway, he's as fine as he can be. I suppose." Looking rather put-out, the demon yanked the last few thorns from his body on his own—a small bunch that had been throbbing at the base of his throat.

For a moment or two, the mooching reaper regarded his friend in silence, lounging back against the sofa's armrest. Then he shook his head despondently, gaze doleful behind his glasses. "Man, I know you hellspawn are all big on aesthetics and stuff, but seriously. This whole setup isn't good for either of you. How d'you two keep this up? Having to be apart and stuff for… well, in deference to my own profession, let's call it 'work.'" He surrounded the euphemism with air-quotes, and Sebastian couldn't help but crack a reluctant grin. "Can't you guys find some other way?"

The demon chuckled softly, dumping a fistful of thorns atop the coffee table. "For some of us, eating isn't as easy as raiding someone else's refrigerator," he drawled, though not without a trace of good humor. "The reason that I am no longer a threat to your kind is because I am bound to Ciel, and can form no other Contracts while I am. But the inability to form Contracts means that I am, essentially, incapable of feeding myself. Thus, if he doesn't wish for me to starve, my master must take on that burden." Sebastian sighed wearily, flicking at the unused gauze that Finny had left out. "Sometimes, depending on the Contract, I have been able to serve as an assistant. Ciel has had a number of decent masters over the years; some have let us make our own nest, some have allowed me to stay with them. Some have even given me permission to serve Ciel in their presence. Some… preferred that, to put it politely. In different ways. But not this man."

Ronald hummed in understanding, mouth half-hidden behind his laced hands. "Grelle told me that this bastard's a monster in his own right," he commented, tenor colored with a mixture of contempt and sympathy. "But then, that's what you expect from someone willing to summon a devil, right? Not that I don't feel sorry for the princess, but he's been through worse. And in the end, he'll get to have his cake and eat it, too, as they say."

As the words fell from his mouth, Ronald perked slightly. "Speaking of, cake sounds really good," he decided, giving his lashes a hopeful bat. "Have you made any, lately? Just for me, perhaps?"

"Why on _earth_ would I have done that?"

Ronald chose to ignore the almost-palpable smattering of disgust in the retort, instead deciding to bank optimistically on Sebastian's high regard for their friendship and (far more realistically) the chance that Ciel had dropped by earlier that week, and there might be some sweet scraps as a result. Undeterred, he flashed the devil his most-convincing puppy-dog-stare, dimpled chin wavering like his teary gaze.

The demon puffed a sigh, expression falling flat. "…there's part of a chocolate torte in the freezer if you want some that badly," he intoned, yelping in pain and surprise when the shinigami's response to this declaration was a brief—but exuberant—hug around the still-tender neck. " _Dammit_ that h— And would you _stop_ sitting on the counters?"

**4:56 PM**

"Get out."

"Oh, c'mon, don't get _mad_ ," Ronald soothed, even as he tried to swallow back his snickers. He wasn't entirely successful, but a mouthful of popcorn helped to muffle his chortles, at least. "I just don't understand how you can take George Clooney seriously after _Batman and Robin_. He can try to be as epic as he wants in these sorts of movies—" he gestured wildly at the rolling credits— "but all I'll ever think of is the Bat Credit Card."

Sebastian scowled, but didn't do much more than that; Georgina had made herself comfortable atop his lap, and he had no desire to disturb her. Besides, he fancied the idea that stroking her fur while simultaneously glaring made him look like something of a Bond villain—a far more pleasing alternative than just looking like he was pouting. But one way or another, it was a visual that had Finny giggling (albeit surreptitiously behind his hand); Ronald didn't look too bothered by it, either. Regardless, when the reaper next checked his watch, he stood with a stretch and did as he was told.

"It _is_ gettin' kinda late, and I have work," he announced in way of explanation, sounding a bit putout at the prospect. Some things never change, and Ronald Knox would never celebrate having to work. "I'd suggest staying away from that club on Eighth Avenue for the rest of the night. You know. If you were so inclined."

"Dunno about Mr. Sebastian, but I didn't plan on leaving the house," Finny chirped, evidently oblivious to the true meaning behind the warning. In fact, it was almost inevitable that, after watching the nightly news, Finny would excitedly inform Sebastian of whatever disaster had occurred there, ever-so-impressed that Ronald had somehow known that something was to happen. (Once in a while, Sebastian wondered just how much his roommate had truly figured out, but didn't particularly care one way or another. It was often easier to feign ignorance; even he knew that.) "Would you like me to fetch you your lawnmower, Mr. Ronald?"

"Nah, I can grab it on my way out. Thanks, blondie." With a rumple of said blonde hair, Ronald leapt over the back of the settee (Sebastian growled) and saluted both men before snatching his scythe from the coat closet and dancing out the door. "Later! Thanks for the food and the lame movie."

"It _wasn't_ lame!" Sebastian retorted loudly, but without much enthusiasm; he scratched Georgina beneath the narrow chin and forlornly shook his head. "Lord, what fools these mortals be…"

"I dunno if Shakespeare would appreciate you quoting his works like that," Finny teased as he gathered up bits and pieces of leftover popcorn. "I mean, Ronald had a point about the Bat Credit Card."

"Don't you start with me, Finnian."

**5:32 PM**

" _I'm telling you, Sebby-darling, the ring is an absolute must. D'you think I would have married my Willy if he hadn't slid a huge ol' hunk o' diamond onto my pretty lil' finger?_ "

"Yes. And for the love of all things unholy, don't call him Willy in my presence."

" _Why not? That's what he is, you know. My big Willy~_ "

"Grelle…"

" _I can't help it! I love my Willy!_ "

"Now you're being crude on purpose."

" _Naturally~_ "

Sebastian—for what felt like the umpteenth time that day—rolled his eyes heavenward, wondering blandly why he hadn't yet blocked this number from his cell phone. (He chose to conveniently forget the fact that he'd been the one to call Grelle.) "In any case," he continued, glossing over whatever other inappropriate insinuations the redhead had cued up and ready for use, "as easy as it is for you to say, you're a woman. Stereotypically, persons of your gender desire tokens of that sort. Ciel is male, and while he has enjoyed wearing rings in the past, he hasn't actively sought one out since England."

" _Well, yeah. But those rings were different. They tied him down to the past, didn't they? I'm not surprised he'd want to let them go. You know. The better to focus on his future with you, right?_ "

"I don't think that's what it symbolized, at the time."

" _Symbols and tokens! What is it with you and symbols and tokens? Buy the boy a damn ring!_ "

"But—"

" _Look_ ," Grelle interrupted, and Sebastian could almost see her lounging atop her four-poster bed, painting her nails a more vibrant shade of claret as William watched the news. (He could dimly overhear the anchor's grim report on the chaos at the nightclub on Eighth Avenue; apparently there'd been some kind of shootout.) " _This is, like, meant to be a new Contract for the two of you, right? Or a re-establishing of one, or something. Yeah?_ "

"In a sense…"

" _Well, for your first Contract, you gave him an eternal case of pink-eye. Why shouldn't you give him something shiny to celebrate this new one? You can get yourself another tattoo, while you're at it, if that's what it takes. Just buy him a rock!_ "

The demon chuckled, low and inaudible, at the death god's insistence that he buy his boyfriend something nice. His amusement was further fed by the reminder of his initial summoning; he couldn't help but wonder what his old-self would have said, were he to be told that someday he'd be having a friendly chat about jewelry with a shinigami. He was half-considering sharing this pondering with Grelle when there was an insistent rap on the front door; faintly startled, he placed Georgina gently on the ground and pushed himself out of his lounger, readjusting his hold on his cell phone. "You know, I am starting to think that you are simply trying to live vicariously through my master. If you want a new toy so badly, talk to your husband."

" _Will says magpie-like tendencies for glittery things makes me look like a sordid crow-demon._ "

"This coming from the man who eats raw peanut butter from the complementary packets at restaurants," Sebastian drawled, grinning mindlessly as he unfastened the locks on the door. The knocking continued as he did so, increasingly persistent. "Don't think I haven't seen it. Yes, he certainly has a right to judge bad h—"

Whatever h-related word Will did or did not have the right to judge was anyone's guess, however, as in that moment Sebastian opened the door and suddenly had a very different set of concerns. Like breathing, for instance. In the half-second between his pathway being unblocked and seeing Sebastian standing there, the demon in the entryway had launched himself into his servant's arms, wrapping his lissome legs around the other's waist and ferociously locking their mouths. Needless to say, the phone wound up on the floor; it was only his engraved instincts for pleasure and protecting Ciel that kept Sebastian from sloppily doing the same. But at the last second, he was able to readjust his footing and topple instead towards the wall, pressing into the needy little body that rubbed and grinded and squirmed against his own.

" _Sebby-darling? Sebastian? Hello? Are you there?_ "

With a throaty moan— the husky hum punctured by the smack of lip on lip— Sebastian pulled away enough to formulate a question, mind still fuzzy from such an unexpected (and deliciously immodest) greeting. "Ciel…?" he choked, eyes fluttering open to regard the boy-creature pinned against him. "Young master, wha— _what happened?_ "

" _…I don't think he's there, Will._ "

Horrified, the butler moved to touch his tamer's damaged cheeks— to run exploratory fingers down the line of bubbled pustules that marred his porcelain face, blotchy and blistered. To examine the bruises on his shoulders, the scratch-marks down his throat. But Ciel batted the hand away, shaking his head.

" _How rude! To call a lady and then hang up without telling her!_ "

"Just kiss me," the boy-creature hissed, breathless, rolling his hips in an evocative sort of way, wanton and frantic. But when Sebastian's only response was a pointed glare, the once-child groaned in frustration and tried again—this time encouraging with words. "Look, he threw holy water at me. It's all superficial, I promise. It's just taking longer than usual to heal because it was blessed. That's all. _Now_ will you kiss me?"

" _Hm? What'd you say, Willy?_ "

The elder demon still didn't look entirely convinced; this time with permission, he gently tilted Ciel's chin this way and that, assessing the damage. Indeed, though the reconstruction of new skin cells was slow, he _did_ seem to be healing… and he was no fool— he understood the symbiotic nature of their Contract just as well as his companion did; both were stronger when allowed to feed off of the energy of the other. (And of course, there was the pleasure aspect. No reason to ignore a good Sin.)

" _Now that you mention it, it did sound like someone was at their door…_ "

"Well… alright. But only because you asked so nicely," Sebastian murmured, leaning in for a second—and notably less feral— greeting. But the longer Ciel groaned and purred and urged, arms and legs coiling ever-more-tightly around his butler's body, the faster Sebastian felt himself losing his grip on his self-control… The only thing he could bring himself to hold onto was the demon's petite body, losing himself in the beauties of its contours as he nipped and suckled and reclaimed marked territory, shivering as Ciel nuzzled licentiously against his chest. At some point, he remembered to close and lock the door again, but it took a while.

" _Oh, I get it! Brat, are you there? Hello, B—!_ "

"'Spro'lly bad to kick your phone like that…" Ciel whispered, words hitching and catching (like nails against cotton) on the tail-end of an impious keen, skillful fingers loosening the top few buttons of an unnecessary shirt. "Might break it…"

"Fuck it," Sebastian muttered in return, readjusting his hold on his master so that they could kiss and walk simultaneously, figuring it might be best not to succumb to temptation against the foyer wall. But when Ciel squawked in indignation at the mere _idea_ , retorting with an almost-drunken, _no, me first…!_ the devil lost whatever willpower he had for movements that weren't against and-or inside of Ciel, and tumbled with his tamer over the arm of the living room couch, laughing all the while.

It was at that moment, of course, that Finny decided to peak out of his bedroom. "Hey, Mr. Sebastian! Did you hear about what happened at the club on E… uh… oh. Hello, young master." The blonde blinked slowly at the sight before him, of a distinctly disheveled Sebastian arched over an equally-tousled Ciel, neither of whom had ever officially stopped making out with the other. Though it took a moment, the former earl _did_ remember enough of his manners to offer his once-gardener a small wave of acknowledgment.

Finny looked a bit unsure whether or not he should return it.

Not that it really mattered, anyway. "Rather busy right now, Finny," a notably winded Sebastian pointed out. Between nibbles of Ciel's ear, he spared the briefest of instants to shoot the blonde a warning glance; beneath him, an entirely shameless Ciel was already working on the buckle of his belt, sliding his thigh up and down the expanse of his servant's. What a brazen whore the master could be… "Can this wait?"

"Um… yeah, yeah, of course. Sorry." Like some sort of tropical turtle, Finny pulled his bright-red head back into the room. "Er… please continue?" he tacked on awkwardly before shutting the door once more.

Not that they needed his prompting to do so, but the intertwined demons did just that.

**7:58 PM**

"Don't think that I am saying this because I want you to leave, but… won't you incur your master's wrath by being here?"

Sebastian, rumpled head pillowed against Ciel's pale thigh, blinked wide, concerned eyes up at his companion, half-tangled in the sheets. At some point (neither was quite sure when) the passionate pair had migrated from the couch to the bed, making only a few pit-stops (walls and tables, mostly) along the way. Rather than leather fabric, it was now the pallor of his room's snow-white ceiling that framed the younger demon's flushed flesh and mercury locks; he almost looked angelic, so pale and pretty against such complimentary pastels. With an enigmatic smile, Ciel continued running slender fingers though Sebastian's flyaway bangs, the tips of his ebony nails tickling his butler's scalp.

"Not to worry," he assured, flippant and entirely unconcerned. And Sebastian had to admit, it was easier to believe such levity now that Ciel's face and body had healed. "When his earlier retribution didn't go as planned, I was told to 'get out of his sight.' And as he has a retreat tomorrow, I won't have to suffer his company until Saturday, at the earliest."

"Oh?" The elder demon lifted his brow, wrapping a willowy arm around the back of his charge's head. Ciel dipped compliantly foreword, nose brushing nose as his grin widened with a flash of ivory incisors. "Is that your way of asking permission to spend the night, young master?"

"No," Ciel returned with ease, a serpentine smirk crinkling the corners of his flashing eyes. "I am not _asking_ anything. I am _telling_ you that I will be spending the night, in this house and in this bed. And if you're lucky, I might even allow _you_ to stay in this bed."

"Is that so?" Trying to mask his perceptible playfulness, Sebastian permitted himself no smile—only the arching of a single thin eyebrow. "Goodness me. Well, if you are going to treat my house as a hotel, then I shall act as the staff. What will you give me in exchange for the room?"

"The pleasure of boarding me isn't enough for you?"

"Surely you can think of more rewarding pleasures."

"Hm… I'm afraid that nothing leaps immediately to mind," Ciel confessed blithely, even as his elegant hands traced delicate, spiraled patterns down Sebastian's temple, cheek, chin, throat… "Perhaps you might give me an example of one such pleasure?"

Only a breath away to start with, Sebastian closed the space between them with a murmured, "yes, my lord," and spent the new few moments trying to decide which was better—seeing Ciel's smile, feeling it, or tasting it. It was not an easy choice to make, and in the end he abandoned making a decision all together, focusing instead on the thrill of tongue and teeth and soft, innocent moans, rich and velvet to the ears.

They had no need for oxygen, but still, the little one ultimately pulled back to fill his lungs; despite the shadow that he cast, Sebastian still felt bathed in light— a warmth that radiated from Ciel's half-lidded eyes, glossy with an affection that he didn't need to name. Sebastian's own gaze softened at the sight, but his head cocked to the right in question, for he could see the thoughts playing out across his master's forever-youthful face. "Is something wrong?" he asked, low voice rough with whispers, stilling Ciel's trailing hand by wrapping it in one of his own. The once-child shook his head in negation, however, despite the wistful nostalgia in his stare.

"I was merely thinking," he explained, sounding just as dreamy as the memories that seemed to flit across his vision. Sebastian said nothing, and in so doing made it clear that he wanted to hear more. Ciel obliged with a chuckle. "Do you remember when I was a newborn fledgling?" he inquired, no doubt rhetorically, as there was nothing that Sebastian did not remember. Even still, the elder devil hummed in tranquil assent. "Back then, you would have to feed me like this…" Ciel brushed his mouth across his butler's in explanation, but did not give in to the temptation to deepen the embrace. Instead, he licked dry lips and grinned. "For nearly 30 years, that was the only way you could make me eat."

"You would complain that souls were too slippery on their own," Sebastian reminisced with a smirk, expression glowing with the same rosy fondness of a parent who was recollecting on their child's early years. "Or that they were too big and difficult to swallow if I didn't first grind them up for you. You'd throw tantrums and sulk when I'd reprimand you about acting like a spoiled baby bird."

"Well, of course I did," Ciel agreed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. (After all, as the earl of Phantomhive…) "I hated the idea that you would one day stop feeding me."

"You _had_ grown rather accustomed to being pampered, you lazy thing," the other commented nonchalantly, though he knew that wasn't the reason why. And Ciel knew that he knew, but all the same, he shook his head and gave Sebastian a sharp little smack of chastisement.

"Idiot," the younger demon muttered, voice cold but lacking its customary bite; his eyes glistened with silent laughter, unable to be hidden beneath his usual facade of apathy. "I never wanted to stop feeding," he explained, speaking over his servant's half-hearted protest at such unjustifiably rough treatment, "because I never wanted to stop kissing you… and I didn't yet know how else to ask."

Even as the words left his mouth, Ciel clearly regretted them; his cheeks, having just lost the fires of gratification, flamed up again in a rush of embarrassment. Mouth warping into a misshapen line that one might describe as a pout, he tried to twist his face from Sebastian's—but the devil caught him by the chin, forcing him to acknowledge his crescent-moon smile.

"And however _did_ you learn to ask?" the devil pressed lightly, in a tone comprised entirely of airy amusement and dark humor. "I don't quite recall."

Ciel's expression morphed in an instant. With a glint of razor-hone canines, he chuckled and leered; possessive hands tightened around his butler's face and shoulders as he leaned downward once more, and this time, didn't come back up.

"I ask for nothing. I just take what I want."

**9:02 PM**

"Now, doesn't this take you back?"

"Feels just like old times," Ciel agreed, the words frothing with giggles as Sebastian kneeled before him, carefully buttoning the dress shirt he'd lent his master. On the once-child's diminutive frame, the crisp top hung like some kind of gown; Ciel kicked his feet and wiggled his toes as the butler finished his self-appointed task, antsy on the edge of the bed. "Though nowadays I could do it myself, if need be. I can brush my teeth and wash on my own, too."

"My, what a big boy the young master is becoming," Sebastian complimented with a sardonic little sneer, bowing briefly. "And it only took two hundred and thirty eight years." Ciel's immediate response was a glower, but the wryness of Sebastian's stare and statement were negated by the obvious joke of it all. Without wasting his time or energy on a scathing retort, the silvery devil flopped back against the already-mussed bedspread, settling himself against a goose feather pillow. He did, however, add in afterthought: "Shut up or I'll make you entertain me some more."

"Oh?" Standing now, but still beside the bed, Sebastian was casually preparing himself for slumber as well: pulling off his loosened shirt and already-unlatched belt. Just as casually, Ciel watched the unconventional pre-sleep show, hands laced lightly atop his stomach. "In what way will you force me to entertain you?"

"Hmmm… I'll make you read me a bedtime story. Or something equally droll," the young demon eventually decreed, squealing a bit when Sebastian (clad once more in his sweatpants) leapt suddenly atop the mattress, sending his tiny tamer an inch or two into the air. "And you'll have to do different voices. And sound effects."

"Horrors. Well, then, I best toe the line and quiet myself," Sebastian chortled, slipping beneath the coverlet and grinning when Ciel ever-so-subtly snuggled closer.

"Damn right, you'd better."

With that verbal guillotine placed precariously over his servant's head, the victorious master settled down, curled up, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. In light of how instantaneously unconsciousness seized him, Sebastian wondered just how long it had been since Ciel had last been given opportunity to rest. For no, while devils didn't really _need_ sleep, sometimes it felt like they did.

But while this may have been one of those times for Ciel, it wasn't for Sebastian; he turned off the lights and murmured "good night," but remained awake for many subsequent hours, perfectly content to watch Ciel's bitty chest rise and fall… rise and fall… rise and fall…

**2:39 AM**

"…Sebastian?"

Less than a whisper, slightly more than a dream; one arm and two legs wound around his tamer's, the butler cracked a lethargic eye open.

"Yes?"

Wide awake and motionless, Ciel was staring blankly at the ceiling, looking strangely frail in the artificial glow of the streetlamps that leaked through the slats in the blinds. When he next spoke, the words were reedy and paper-thin, like even _he_ didn't want to be speaking them. "You don't think that he'll actually succeed, do you?" he breathed—and yes, that was a tremble that shot down his back, ice-cold with goosepimples. "That he'll find a way to kill a devil before his Time runs out?"

Demons rarely hated. To hate something, one must first go through the bother of giving a damn, one way or another; demons rarely hated, because they rarely cared. But Sebastian wasn't the same demon he'd been when he'd first Fallen— he wasn't the conspirator, the unconcerned calculator. Not anymore. It was difficult to be cold and calculating when one was so inescapably tied to a place, to a person… So yes, Sebastian hated. He hated his little lord's twisted master with a passion that was almost foreign to him; he hated the terms of the covenant that Ciel was forced to endure and acknowledge; he hated having no choice but to watch his tamer play the guinea pig, tolerating all manner of inhumanity at the hands of some sanctimonious cleric. A forty year game of life or death, all for one scrappy meal.

At times, Sebastian hated his life.

But at the same time…

With the arm he'd already wrapped around his contractor, the devil pulled the once-boy closer; he buried his face in tousled waves of gray and soothed jittery nerves with a calm hand. Rationally, they both realized that Ciel's fears were misplaced. Sans a violent encounter with a reaper's death scythe, they were immortal and virtually invincible. Regardless, rationality had never held much sway in the face of post-midnight ponderings, and even for a demon, the spell of darkness was difficult to break.

Sebastian tucked his tiny lover closer to his chest, sucking in his scent and relishing the feel of cool skin beneath rumpled cotton fabric. Twitching toes brushed over his shins, and hot breath exploded against his collar bone, its warmth caressing the crook of his neck. It was almost as tangible as the flutter of moonstone lashes against his breast, the scrabble of filed nails, the rhythmic beating of a heart that should have stopped decades ago…

"He won't," Sebastian promised, quiet voice rough with certainty. The words were muffled by silken hair, but it didn't matter. They still calmed racing nerves, soothed shallow gasps. "He won't," he promised again, tightening his hold. "I will not allow it."

Ciel's smile was feeble, but genuine.

"I know."

And because he knew, both were able to sleep.

**6:23 AM**

Sebastian never felt more human than when he woke up to an alarm clock.

The initial confusion, disorientating and irritating, settled in like (ironically) clockwork, as bright eyes snapped open, ready to gawk at the ceiling. But no… Instead, they fell upon the pillow, and the sheets, and the coiled form of Ciel, curled up in blankets and limbs like the coziest of cats. At first, the demon felt uncharacteristically baffled, half-convinced that he remained stuck in a dream… but soon after, the events of the night prior returned to him, and his perplexed expression melted into a contented smile. With the arm that his master _hadn't_ claimed as a head-rest, he touched Ciel's slumbering face— ghosted the backs of his fingers up and down those gently rounded cheeks, brushing tufts of hoary hair behind pierced ears.

Ciel stirred a bit at the tender touch, but did not bother waking; the alarm itself seemed to have caused him a bit of stress, but Sebastian managed to quickly and effectively silence the contraption. (Whether or not it would be able to ring tomorrow, however, was anyone's guess.) It was during this awkward, one-handed battle with the side-table that the demon noticed his cell phone had magically appeared in its proper place, looking somewhat worse-for-wear but still functional. He supposed Finny had snuck in when he'd felt it safe to do so and returned it, seeing as how leaving it on the floor for Georgina to play with probably wasn't a good idea.

Speaking of…

"…do I even want to know how you got in here?"

At the sound of her master's voice, Georgina unfurled a fraction—just enough to lift her regal black head—and gave a mighty yawn, undeterred by the disapproval in Sebastian's tone. Her point made, she returned to cuddling in the small of Ciel's back, vibrating faintly in the wake of a rumbling purr. Sebastian arched an eyebrow at the cocky (albeit expected) reaction, but left it at that. It was her own funeral, if Ciel woke to find her. She knew that, at this point.

Shaking his head, Sebastian returned his attention to his blackberry, lighting the screen with a brush of his thumb. _Friday_ , the clock read. 6:30 AM. It was getting late; he had to get ready for work.

With a muted exhale, Ciel shifted and nestled, mumbling vaguely about Ferris wheels.

…on the other hand…

A few deft pokes and prods later, Sebastian had summoned a number to the cell phone's touch screen. With unusual gusto, he pressed the "call" button and cleared his throat, already carefully selecting the right words in his mind. He was more than ready when he finally heard the click of acknowledgement on the other end of the line.

"Hello, Viola? This is Sebastian. …Yes, yes, I know I sound awful. Picked up something last night. I went to bed early, but… mmm. It's bogging me down, really. I can't even seem to get out of bed. …oh, would you mind terribly? Thank you. Yes. I promise, I won't leave my bed for the rest of the morning. Mhm... I will see you tomorrow."

He slid the phone shut just as mismatched eyes slid open; Ciel offered a faintly-reproving glare as Sebastian's smirk strained for his ears.

"I thought you didn't lie," the little one said reproachfully, even as his own mouth curved upward in parody of Sebastian's. Though awake now, he didn't bother moving; rather, he remained a languid fixture atop Sebastian's arm, perfectly content with the state of things. "That seemed a bit deceitful, wouldn't you say?"

"Young master, you offend me. I did not spout a single untruth," Sebastian retorted in mock-offence, tossing his phone to the edge of the mattress. "Everything I said was fact. I simply did not bother to correct the assumptions of my manager."

"'Everything?'" Ciel echoed in bland surprise, rolling over (and accidentally-on purpose kicking a yowling Georgina as he did so) to bat at Sebastian's dangling forelocks. "Well then, we're looking at a rather boring morning, aren't we? Since I believe you made a promise to stay in bed."

The elder devil chuckled, lush and low, as he wrapped gentle fingers around his master's playful palms, stopping the once-boy mid-flourish. "Hmm, I am not so certain of that," he then murmured, a sensual huskiness fraying the ends of his wicked wheedles. "I can think of a way to entertain you whilst confined to this space."

The once-child flashed another leer, devious and amused. "Does it involve reading aloud and making sound effects?"

"More the latter than the former."

"Hm," Ciel murmured, decidedly indifferent. "There's no helping it, I guess. I'll permit it for now," he announced regally, rolling over until he was straddled across his butler's lap. "Until I get bored."

Sebastian's grin was full of laughter, and his eyes were full of affection. "Yes, my lord," he mouthed into a kiss, and as bodies shifted and blankets bunched, as entwined limbs untangled only to be re-woven, as an irate Georgina scurried to hide beneath the bed, the demon couldn't help but feel like this was the way it was supposed to be. Like every day was Sunday, regardless of what his cell phone or the calendar said. In the tiniest corner of his mind—the only part of him that wasn't fully wrapped up and engaged in the mewls and moans and movements of Ciel— Sebastian wondered if, someday, things really _could_ be like this. Maybe, after this master. Maybe, after he asked. Maybe…

"Hey, young master… Would you like a ring?"

Visibly taken aback, but too stepped up on hormones and adrenaline to react quite as violently as he would have otherwise, Ciel pulled a scant inch away and regarded his panting butler in confusion: from his silly smile to his sparkling gaze. Atop the devil's splayed hips, still pinning his servant and grinding absently against him, the once-boy seemed to half-consider the question… But failing to see the importance of it, merely shrugged and returned to kissing Sebastian—a far more practical use for his mouth, as far as he was concerned. Still, for the sake of politeness, he did manage to murmur: "Maybe… If there was a good reason for it."

A reasonable response, Sebastian supposed. Reasonable, but cryptic. Though it seemed that deciding what was or wasn't a "good reason" was a task that he would have to deal with later, as Ciel chose that exact moment to slip a wily hand beneath the elastic of Sebastian's sweatpants. And when he did things like that, well, thoughts of rings and reasons and dates and plans flew right out of the metaphorical window.

But Sebastian _did_ remember the "maybe." And for now, that was good enough.

For now, everything was good enough.

**XXX**

  



	5. Coffee Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If it is a baby that you desire, I would be more than happy to be of assistance."

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Author's Note:** TIME JUMPING IS FUN, Y/Y? Linear writing is for squares. :I Haha. XD;

**Warnings:** SebaCiel, fluff, crack. Part of the "Bicentennial" universe. (" Bicentennial," "Inevitable," "Five Thousand," and "Timetable.") Takes place between "Bicentennial" and "Five Thousand." (And mentions events referenced in "Five Thousand.") Edited quickly. No offence meant to those who like Starbucks…? XD; And finally, there's one really bad, distasteful joke. You'll know it when you get to it. It's abortion-related. I'm sorry. orz

**Dedication:** For Nene, who listened to me ramble about the idea and laughed (and discouraged) when appropriate. XD

**XXX**

**Coffee Break**

**XXX**

**3:12 PM**

Ciel Phantomhive didn't quite understand the attraction of television.

Sure, it was an intriguing invention. Sure, he watched it from time to time. Sure, there were even shows that he liked. But the staged theatrics projected onto flat plasma screens hardly held the allure and appeal of natural human drama, no matter how mundane. Admittedly, soap operas might be train wrecks, but weren't _real_ train wrecks far more fascinating? And yes, tales of separated siblings getting married— only to discover the truth behind their physical similarities, and the fact that their mother had been diagnosed with a rare strain of cancer, _and_ that their mother's doctor had been their father's secret lover for nigh twenty years—might all sound very interesting in theory, but wasn't the neighbor's affair with the local high school principal far juicer fare for gossip? Didn't _that_ hold more potential for blackmail and corruption? Honestly, there was no need for the trash rags and tabloids; just people-watch for an hour or two, and that should be more than enough to sustain even the nosiest of busybodies.

But that wasn't the only reason the little demon sat beside the window at the local Starbucks, ebony-tipped fingers wrapped around a cooling cup of some overpriced, over-processed, coffee-flavored beverage. No, if he were to be completely honest (something he tried very hard not to be, sans with a few select individuals), Ciel would have to confess that he found a strange sort of comfort in people-watching. It was fun—almost kind of cozy—to observe happy friends as they wandered by, to see the bashful couples holding hands, to snort over siblings picking on one another… Nothing on television would ever compare to raw imagination, and Ciel sometimes indulged in imagining the most peculiar things: what would it have been like to have been raised as a regular child? Not only in his own era, but in this one? What if he'd never become a demon? What if he'd never met Sebastian? What if he'd gotten married? What if he'd had a family?

Behind the silvery fringe of styled bangs, his Contract seal thrummed and tingled with a dusty old power; he pulled his gaze away from a mother and a father and cooing their infant—a beautiful boy with dark hair, apple cheeks, and cobalt eyes. In their place, Ciel turned his stare in the direction of the tickling-tug; a smile quirked his lips when he found Sebastian in the chair across from his, holding a Styrofoam cup and a half-folded apron.

"Working hard or hardly working?" Ciel greeted pleasantly, fully aware of the triteness of the salutation. Sebastian's response was a condescending sneer, nose scrunching as he noiselessly mimicked his master. Ah, how they'd both "matured" with age. Once he'd finished giggling, the younger of the two twisted fully from the casement and grinned more broadly. "How long is your break?"

"Fifteen minutes," Sebastian replied, crossing one lithe leg over another and placing his untouched coffee beside his master's. Once he'd done so, his hands returned to his lap, allowing Ciel the pleasure of playing with the drink: adding unhealthy amounts of sugar, cream, honey, and whatever other makeshift sweeteners he'd found in his boredom. Not that he'd drink it, of course, but who cared? They were demons, after all, and had no concern for waste; little bits of evil added up quite nicely. Starving children in Africa, etcetera, etcetera. "Just enough time to thoroughly pester you, then leave. A drive-by harassing, if you will. Only I'll be sitting, thank you, because my feet hurt."

"And to think, you were once so frightening," the not-boy teased, dipping a stir-stick into Sebastian's (almost white) beverage and mixing it briskly. With all of the junk he'd poured in, it was almost more of a solid than a liquid. The saccharine sludge oozed and burbled at Ciel's effort. "Now you're too lazy to even _bother_ me properly."

"Hey now," Sebastian frowned in mock offense. "I managed to interrupt your daydreaming, yes? That has to count for something." But he winked as he protested, and chuckled when Ciel gagged. In negation, of course. Not because he'd tasted a teaspoon of the sugar-slop. "What were you pondering over, if I may ask? Whatever it was, you seemed to be thinking on it rather hard."

He waited a moment for a reply, but Ciel's mouth was still clamped firmly shut—face contorted as he tried to fight through the pain of his experimental sip. Sebastian rolled his eyes, and in so doing caught a glimpse of those beyond the glass. It didn't take long for him to piece an answer together. "Ah," he murmured, rosy stare softening the smallest of fractions. Coal-black lashes lowered decoratively; he shot his tamer an almost accusatory glance. It made Ciel feel oddly… uncomfortable. Even disregarding the unadulterated and strangely-bitter sugar curdling his tongue. "Perhaps it was not so much _memories_ that the master was musing on, but wishes. Or worse, regrets."

In an instant, Ciel's grimace became a scowl, and all other senses were forgotten. " _I regret nothing_ ," he retorted firmly, if not a bit frostily… but the ice in his tone melted at the smallest glimmer of pain he caught in the corner of his servant's eye. "I _don't_ ," he reiterated quietly, emphatically, as he reached across the wooden table to touch Sebastian's arm. "But don't you ever wonder what it would have been like? You know, if things had gone as they were always meant to?"

The other hummed, and for a minute seemed somehow distant… but then returned to himself, with a gaze gentler than before. "I did, once," he admitted simply, clasping the petite hand that continued to cling to his elbow. "But I've since realized that this _is_ the way things should have gone. Back then, we both had our pride, and through that blinding shroud I couldn't have seen, would have refused to realize… I did not see until so much later how much you had changed me, and how much I needed you. I was—and still am—hungry, yes. But my hunger for you runs so much _deeper_ than that of an empty belly."

Sebastian offered an easy smile, as if what he'd said had been so obvious and natural that he had no need or reason to feel embarrassed, even as he lifted Ciel's palm to his lips and kissed it. Ciel, for his part, turned the same shade of red as his flashing irises. He appeared to be glowing just as brightly, as well.

"… _ahem_. Well, um, yes. There is _that_ ," the once-boy conceded, sounding torn between pleasure and chagrin as he blushed scarlet and pulled his hand away, hiding it between clamped knees. "And it's not that you're not right about that, or that I want—or want _ed_ —anything else to happen to me. To us. But sometimes I can't help but think of what things would have been like if my parents hadn't died, or if I'd married Lizzie. If we'd had children." He shrugged, almost helplessly. Or maybe it was apologetic. "It is human nature to wonder about such things, isn't it?"

"Hm. Indeed. And human nature was never something you had time for as a human," Sebastian conceded, darkly amused by the irony. He leaned back in his seat, ideas and contemplations playing out across his porcelain face; he tapped steepled fingers, he jostled a draped foot, he stared deeply into Ciel's sapphire eyes… And Ciel, in turn, felt even more awkward than before. Which was, in fact, saying something. He was just about to speak up and ask what on earth was running through his butler's twisted mind when said butler broke the hush, somber expression melting into a chipper grin.

"… _well_ ," he then concluded, sounding oddly pleased with himself, "as painful as it is for me to admit, young master, there is not much I can do in regards to your parents. You have known _that_ since the very beginning. That said," Sebastian continued, cutting off his lord's near-palpable questions before he could even form them, "if it is a baby that you desire, I would be more than happy to be of assistance."

"I—… _what_?" Visibly baffled (and perhaps rightfully so), Ciel's expression morphed from one of confusion to one of bewildered outrage. "Why— how—? I'm not going to let you steal some poor soul's child! Or, God forbid, find another nun and—!"

The younger devil's appalled tirade was interrupted by a chortle and a flippant wave of a hand; he stumbled to a reluctant stop, but still seemed faintly terrified by whatever was next going to come out of his servant's beaming mouth.

"Don't be absurd," Sebastian affectionately chastised, lounging against his backrest like a king in a very comfortable throne. "I would never do any such thing. No, I am of course suggesting that we have a child _together_. It is quite doable. I believe you are already aware of the, ah, logistics, shall we say…" He smirked at the delicate euphemism, all the more delighted by his lord's claret cheeks and horrified glare. "We could easily conceive, if you so desired it."

Ciel spluttered at the c-word, and Sebastian was so elated, he half-wondered why he'd never bothered teaching his earl (back when he _was_ an earl) about the birds and the bees in a less… pleasurable fashion. What fun it would have been, back in the day… But this was no time for reminiscing; there was too much fun to be had in the present. "Impossible! We're both _men_!" the little one was hissing, vibrant magenta from head to toe and squirming to boot—but not, Sebastian was amused to note, outright squashing his suggestion. How interesting. "Neither of us have the… the _parts_ for it!"

"Not so," Sebastian calmly corrected, ever at ease in the most bizarre of situations. Though he did hesitate, then, at a thought. "Well… Conceivably—" (another squawk) "—that _could_ be a concern for _you_ —you are a special case, my lord. But as I was born a demon, I am entirely capable of being fully female. It is as simple for me as being fully male. I admit, I do personally identify myself as 'male,' and as a masculine form was your wish when we met, it has never before been an issue… but our disguises can be more than skin-deep, when necessary. And it _is_ necessary for me to please my master."

He grinned agreeably, but Ciel was too busy trying to collect his wits to notice. "But… but…" his tamer weakly protested; Sebastian fancied that he could hear the neurons laced within his gray matter snapping.

"It is not as if you cannot _perform_ when I am a woman," the servant offered helpfully, in tones so complimentary they were clearly meant to mock. He leaned an inch or two closer, his husky voice lowering to become a reverential whisper. "You did _wonderfully_ back in France. I can hardly think of our encounters in respectable company, if you know what I mean. Poor Lady Elizabeth certainly missed out—"

"Oh, shut up, _do_!" Ciel squeaked—cleared his throat—then squeaked again, mortified. In a fit of juvenile humiliation, he buried his face in the arms he'd crossed atop the table, as if in some poor attempt to hide. Sebastian inwardly crowed with glee, basking in the paradox that was his beloved young master. Such a queer reality, that this was the same licentious creature who would so joyfully ravish him in front of shinigami, relishing the audience. How funny, how entertaining, that talk of impregnation and babies would rile him so. Well, everybody had their limits… Which, coincidentally, was something that Ciel was realizing right that very instant.

"Wait a moment," he muttered, head popping back up to glower at his servant. "No. No, you can't. You can't possibly stay a woman for as long as it would take to… er… I mean, people would notice! They'd wonder where you'd gone!"

"No, I could continue to utilize my male form," Sebastian corrected with a lazy shrug. What with the speed at which he was able to shoot back his answers, it was almost as if he'd given every potential hitch or snag in this "plan" of his due consideration. Ciel wasn't sure he wanted to know why. "I'd need only maintain a feminine appearance internally. And I doubt that anyone would find a justifiable reason to give me an x-ray over the course of a measly six months, six weeks, and six days."

"Six months, six weeks, and si…? Oh. Got it," Ciel announced hollowly, as if he really should have seen that coming. (Which he should have.) But his energy returned to him almost instantaneously, with a vigorous shake of his head and a noisy scoff. "But—no! No, that would make it worse! How would you explain your… er… _condition_ if your outside was male? Pregnancy comes with a very distinct _look_ about it!"

Sebastian blinked once, eyes wide and innocent. "If it bothers you that much that people would think I'd gone to the fat, we could go on holiday," he proposed cheerfully, plainly pleased with this particular idea. He did work very hard, after all. A vacation would be well-deserved. "Or tell people that I had a stomach tumor. Or both! You just have to think creatively, my lord."

The chipper encouragement was wasted upon Ciel, however, who was leveling Sebastian a look that unmistakably suggested that someone at this table had lost his mind. Someone who wasn't _him_ , more specifically, despite the fact that he'd just spent the last four minutes writhing and flopping around. "There's a fine, fine line between creativity and insanity," the once-child flatly drawled, having apparently exhausted his well of good humor. "And I think you've just crossed it. I'm putting my foot down. No—just… just _no_ —to all of that stuff. I regret ever having brought it up. We are _not_ having a baby, and that is final!"

Silence. A very heavy, heavy silence.

"…oh?" Sebastian then murmured, cocking his head to the right. He was still grinning peacefully—that old trademarked expression of his— as he mulled over his master's shrill announcement. "Well, dear me. This _is_ a problem," he lightly professed… and only then did Ciel notice that—for the longest time, now—the demon's hands had been resting gently atop his belly, caressing it with the subtlest of loving, ginger strokes. "You really should have come to that decision _before_ our passionate tryst in France, Ciel."

Ciel's flushed face lost all color. "…wha—?" he finally managed, effectively choking on air. "What're you—?"

But Sebastian was under no obligation to reply. After all, the question was only half-formed; he couldn't _possibly_ respond to an inquiry that he hadn't officially been asked, now, could he? In an unusual show of patience, he _did_ wait for a moment as his tamer tried to find the right words, but in the end couldn't resist making a production out of checking his watch. And when he did that…

"Oh my, would you look at the time? My break has just ended!" the elder devil sang, jumping to his feet with the enthusiasm of a nubile school girl. As the once-boy's broken brain tried to repair itself (mouth opening and closing in a continued, futile effort to form a coherent sentence), Ciel's servant swept the trash from their table, kissed his master swiftly on the temple, and bustled back to the counter to continue making mochas and frappichinos for the city's money-wasting elitists.

**5:29 PM**

"And what on earth has _you_ so tickled?" a bespeckled young woman named Ariel inquired, arching an eyebrow at her coworker's unusual antics. Though Sebastian had never before been in a notably _bad_ mood at work, his good moods hadn't ever seemed quite so genuine. He graced his colleague with a devious smirk as he pulled a new canister of whipped cream from the fridge.

"I just played a very entertaining joke on my brother," Sebastian then explained, his voice frothing with an undercurrent of snickers. "It has been a long while since I was last able to trick him. I will apologize for it later, of course, but for the time being, I must admit that I am basking in the glory of a somewhat-cruel victory."

Ariel tossed one of her twin plaits over her shoulder, forehead knitting as she mentally ticked off all of the unfamiliar faces she'd seen in the shop that day. "Brother…? Oh! That cute, dark-haired boy!" she said (perhaps a bit loudly) as she clapped her hands in realization. But as she remembered the child's face, tone, and deep, worried eyes, she couldn't help but frown. It was an expression that she didn't hesitate sharing with Sebastian. "Hm, well, I hope that prank was worth it, because he seemed pretty bothered about something," Ariel told him, in the stern, mother-like, lecturing tones that she often used when talking to new employees. "I'd forgotten, since we had that big rush right after he left, but your brother stopped me when you were in the back room. He said to tell you that he'd be 'round to pick you up when your shift was over, but he had to go out and buy some emergency coat hangers…?" She shrugged, nonplussed. "I thought it was a weird reason to leave, and even weirder since he seemed so very grave about it, but if it was a reaction to your jok— Sebastian? Are you okay? You look a trifle green…?"

The brunette paused in her ramblings, concern switching subjects as she reached out to check her associate's temperature. Sebastian sidestepped her hand with a nervous laugh, indeed looking somewhat multihued.

"Er, no, no, I'm fine," he insisted, despite the clammy sweat that had bubbled to the surface of his brow. Goodness, she had never seen the man look so _antsy_ … It was like she was seeing a whole new side of Sebastian, today. "But, um… I need to make an emergency phone call. Right now. Excuse me."

And before Ariel could remind him that he'd already had his break, and that using cell phones on-the-clock was against company policy, Sebastian had disappeared into the back room again, accessing his speed-dial as quickly as his fingers would allow. Well, maybe he was calling his doctor? That would make his rule-breaking forgivable. Either way, whatever. She'd just blackmail him into letting her have the extras from the tip jar tonight in exchange for keeping quiet.

Adjusting her glasses with a hum and a nod, the young woman returned happily to work.

**XXX**


	6. Surely Someday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And what would you like from the future, Ciel?"

**Author's Note:** Nope.

**Disclaimer:** This is still _not_ what I'm supposed to be working on! Dammit, Hannah—! XD;

**Warnings:** MORE TIME JUMPING. 8D (That's sorta how this whole series works, eh heh.) SebaCiel. Implications of torture, I guess? Part of the "Bicentennial" series ("Bicentennial," "Inevitable," "Five Thousand," "Timetable," "Coffee Break" and "Cats and Dogs"); takes place before "Five Thousand." My usual slopping editing. Not the same sort of fluff as most of the "Bicentennial" series, but this is a scene that has been stuck in my head since the beginning. So I figured I'd write it out. :3

**XXX**

**Surely Someday**

**XXX**

**7:14 PM**

The rain fell.

With a hollow drumming sound, cold shards of diamond shattered upon benches, sidewalk, canopy; the trees shivered under the onslaught, their dying leaves crying pearly tears of excess. Above, on the busy roadway, cars and buses sliced through puddles that had once been simple potholes; below, beneath the arch of the concrete bridge, two figures huddled together in misty darkness. The taller one had his back to the damp gray wall, knees bent enough to cradle the smaller in his lap. Hidden in the shadows, he wrapped his arms more tightly around the little one, gnawing on his bottom lip as his companion's ragged breathing echoed through the gloom.

"…you will be alright, Ciel," he murmured (once again), tucking the other's hoary head beneath his chin and curling all the closer. Ciel managed a raspy snort in reply, feeble and delayed; his closed lashes flickered as he nuzzled weakly against the familiar chest. The white of his companion's shirt had long-since been smeared red, green, and yellow. Still, through the clinging odor of copper rust, the once-child could detect the sweetened-cinnamon smell of his butler. He savored the scent, as if it were a salve for the bruises, burns, and blisters that decorated his sagging limbs.

"I'm not worried… about myself, Seb… astian…" the not-boy whispered, hoarse and faint and barely audible over the downpour. The stink of earth and worm clung to the hazy air; he buried his face more deeply in the crook of his servant's neck. "You shou…ldn't have… done that…"

Sebastian's expression, already riddled with worry, tensed into a scowl. He readjusted his arms and legs so that, from a distance, he and his charge almost looked more one than two. "He was hurting you," the demon pointed out—or protested, rather, in a tone very much like a whimper. "I could not simply stand by. Not when…" Sebastian swallowed thickly, running anxious fingers through Ciel's gauzy tresses. Each strand shimmered in the wetness, as if individually glossed. Violets and roses had blossomed upon the corpse-white canvas of his face; like a china doll half-shattered on the floor, the sight was so beautiful and horrifying that it made Sebastian's heart ache.

The little devil managed another quiet grunt in return. His guardian counted each shallow breath that wafted through his dangling forelocks. "He won't… let me see y… ou… after this…" Ciel mumbled, the low lament punctured by teardrops from on high. "I don't know if… I don't know if I c- can…"

" _Hush now_ ," Sebastian demanded, a half-hiss that cracked with poorly masked emotion. He pulled that wounded body all the nearer to his own, stroking hair and back and nestling (gingerly) cheek to cheek. Ciel's shoulders jerked; he wished he could hold Sebastian equally close, but as it was, his arms refused to move. "Hush. You are speaking nonsense, young master. I care not for what your Contractor says—we will find a way to see one another. His covenant will only last a few more years… you have all of the future to look forward to."

"…mm." The not-boy made a muffled sound in the back of his throat, something akin to a dubious hum. "The future…" he then echoed blandly, the phrase as frayed around the edges as his sanity. He coughed once, a phlegm-filled rumbling, before choking out a frail giggle. "Huh."

Sebastian did not like the apathy with which his master considered the prospect. It was almost as if he didn't believe that… Forcing such thoughts from his mind, the butler offered an encouraging smile that the boy could not see, but could certainly hear. "And what would you like from the future, Ciel?" he asked in a hush, rocking their bodies gently back and forth. "What would you like to do when this is all over?"

"T-take a… vacation…?" The sarcasm was nearly tangible; it made the demon chortle.

"France again?"

Sebastian decided to interpret the guttural noise he next heard as a 'no.' "Very well," he soothed, pressing upturned lips against the crown of his master's head. "How about we stay in the country? I hear Iowa offers a delightful tourist trap called the Corn Palace. Or perhaps we might seek out the world's largest ball of twine? The possibilities are endless."

Had he the full capabilities of his lungs, Ciel most certainly would have laughed; as it was, he hacked in wry amusement for half a moment before shaking his head against his servant's torso. "I think… I'd rather die…" he drawled. But for as morbid and inappropriate as that statement currently was, at least there was a hint of humor in it; Sebastian chose to take comfort in that.

"Oh, come now. I wouldn't make you wear the Elmo hat," the devil persisted, teasing right back. "And think of how very jealous Will and Grelle will be when we tell them of our fascinating adventures in Iowa." He waited a spell for a retort, but it never came; the once-boy lacked the energy to carry on with such banter, so Sebastian tactfully brought the joke to an end. His frown returned, but Ciel was still breathing… he could feel each tired puff against his breast.

"…how about this," the demon proposed a minute later, in a voice soft and serious, subdued and saccharine. A sugar-coated happiness clung to words that ached with apprehension and sorrow. "We will take some time off. We will be full, so we needn't worry about our next meal for a few centuries… and I have plenty of jobs. We can refurbish my apartment, or maybe purchase a house. We will pass our days reading and listening to music… You could take up the violin again, or I could teach you piano. We will have movie nights with the reapers and play Monopoly with Finny, and you and Georgina can get into as many glaring contests as you wish. There will be parties and picnics and all manner of insanity, I am sure… and every night, we will fall asleep side by side. Probably after I have made love to you on every available surface." The devil allowed himself a restrained chuckle, feathering a kiss against his tamer's clammy brow. "How does that sound, Ciel?"

For a long while, Ciel offered no response. In fact, he made no sign that he'd even been listening. His skinny chest rose and fell, rose and fell; his downcast gaze grew fuzzy. But just when Sebastian was on the verge of true panic, he heard the not-boy mutter: "…I don't… really like Monopoly…"

Relief washed over the elder devil's face; nerves still tingling, he managed a genuine grin. "In life, we are all forced to endure things that we do not want to, baby bird," Sebastian reminded, in a tone that throbbed with understated affection. He readjusted his hold on his master, resting that wounded head against his shoulder. "It is for that reason that you will one day witness the splendor of the Corn Palace."

"…oh joy."

With a final, muted snicker, Sebastian allowed a foggy quiet to envelope them both—lulled into a state of semi-calm by the crystalline chime of rain, and the rhythmic pattern of inhale, exhale… inhale, exhale… inhale, exhale… The little one's slight weight increased a fraction as he more fully relaxed, and by the droop of his upper body his butler could tell that he'd fallen asleep. Sebastian felt his mouth quirk into the smallest of smiles, brow furrowed in some strange hybrid of sorrow and devotion.

"…do you know what _I_ would like when this is all over, my lord?" he whispered, not loud enough to wake his master, but with enough vigor to rustle moistened locks of silver. Still wearing that smile, Sebastian lifted one limp hand to his pliant lips, tasting the skin of Ciel's ring finger. Then, with equally careful movements, he lowered that injured arm and returned to his watch.

"Someday…"

And the rain continued to fall.

**XXX**


	7. Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A turning point at the turn of the century.

**Disclaimer:** Nada.

 **Author's Note:** This was originally gonna be part of a "Bicentennial"-themed sentence/mini-fic collection, but as it was such a big moment in Sebastian and Ciel's life, I figured it deserved a ficlet of its own. In any case, I'm sorry it's another somewhat-serious story. Crack and humor will return soon, I promise. Hopefully after finals season, when my mood improves, haha. XD;

 **Warning:** SebaCiel sexitiemz. Part of the "Bicentennial" series ("Bicentennial," "Inevitable," "Five Thousand," "Timetable," "Coffee Break." "Cats and Dogs," and "Surely Someday"); takes place _before_ "Bicentennial." Fail editing for quick writing.

**XXX**

**Turn**

**XXX**

**6:42 PM**

_I wanted to leave. But I couldn't._

He'd strung up the linens again. It was the first thing Sebastian noticed upon re-entering their temporary nest: a back corner decorated like a laundry line, with bedclothes hanging like a partition. A cotton-walled garrison, a bitty bunker of soft white, fortified by the garish pattern of pealing paper plastered over the fractured spackling of the hotel room.

_So you hid, instead?_

The butler had bowed himself inside. He'd sat beside his master.

_I didn't want to see you._

They'd spoken.

_Why ever not?_

Or, at least, he thought they had.

_I hate you too much…_

Cockroaches skittered between slats of wood and cement, nibbling on filth; from the distant dining room, cutlery chimed as wealthy patrons gorged themselves on red meats and purple wines. It was deafening, really. The smallest of sounds was magnified by their fabric cave. Both within and without, it was a world full of noise: the screech of rubber tires, the tinny clatter of stalling carriages, the heaving breaths of two figures—once distinctive creatures but now tangled beyond recognition.

_I know, young master._

The distorted silhouettes danced like shadow puppets upon the drape of the eiderdown— desperate undulations as frantic hands ripped and tore. A whine; a gasp; a groan: childish noises of discomfort, fear, and surprise.

_You know because you hate me, too._

Claws scrabbled against the lacquered laths of the floorboards: slender, skittering spiders that stretched and strained for purchase. Their scrambling echoed like white nose, like radio static, like the rushing of blood in flushed ears.

 _Yes. I hate you so much I cannot_ stand _it…_

When he threw his head back, those nails gouged thin trials into the hardwood planks, serenading a sharp, staccato cry.

_I hate you more than words can express…_

The window was open. Beyond, on the street below, giggling children were playing hopscotch and jump rope; the metrical _thwap, thwap, thwap_ ingof the twine cord was reminiscent of a more intimate rhythm, just as frenzied but half as innocent.

_Then do not use words._

The once-boy was openly sobbing now—no longer attempting to hide his tears, no longer trying to pretend. The ache in his belly, his heart, his twisting insides; it was too much to mask, too much to suppress. Flailing fingers found a home in rumpled clumps of an unbuttoned top, and he keened into the ear pressed close to his temple, trembling legs spread wide in further welcome.

 _But I need to. I don't have anything_ but _words. I tried to take action—I tried to get away. But I couldn't. I hate you… because I couldn't leave. I hate you because I don't think I can live without you anymore…_

The declaration had been given in the faintest of whispers; since then, Ciel had lost his voice entirely. He could do nothing more than offer husky murmurs of encouragement, now: quivering lips skimming over dampened planes of porcelain flesh, tasting all the years that lingered there. All the agony and confusion, all the regret and frustration: cobwebbed remnants of hubris and an Ouroboros longing.

_...it is a horrible feeling, isn't it?_

He shuddered with every gasp that blustered against the curve of his neck. He bucked into each thrust that forced his hips from the ground. He coiled lanky arms around his silently-whimpering butler, squeezing mismatched eyes shut… as if that might keep the other from Knowing. Might stop him from seeing through the once-child's cracking façade— from peeking into the churning depths of his soul and learning what thoughts had taken root there.

_Oppressive. Like…_

Everything _throbbed_.

_Like hunger._

A wind blew through the casement. The coverlets, like the demons, visibly convulsed; fists clenched in time with other pieces of anatomy, sounds muffled by the cordon of susurrant sheets. In tandem, the devils choked: on pride that they had yet to swallow, on the burning brunt of gratified mewls, on the instinctive confessions that they would not-dare acknowledge for another handful of decades.

_Sebastian… I'm hungry._

In the aftermath, they did not know what to say— gazes hazy with pleasure but lips taut with uncertainty. Awkwardness, weighted and hushed. Sebastian's palms rested heavily on either side of his tamer's face; Ciel's hand had somehow become knotted in the billows of bedding.

_I have no more souls to offer, I am afraid._

Without warning, Ciel's arm jerked. Sebastian instinctively did the same, and in that moment—as the bedclothes fluttered and fell, as the sheets swept low to swathe them, as the world they knew vanished behind veils of purity and sin, the once-earl leaned forward to press his mouth to his servant's. He lingered there for a spell, like a drop of sugared sweetness atop the tongue, before pulling away with a blush and a stare.

_Then give me your body._

For a moment, Sebastian could only gawk.

… _yes, my lord._

Then he could only smile.

**XXX**


	8. Bouquet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A weed is no more than a flower in disguise, which is seen through at once, if love give a man eyes." -James Russell Lowell.

**Disclaimer:** Nope.

 **Author's Note:** DAMMIT HANNAH. XD;

 **Warnings:** Ronald/lots of random girls, Ronald/Finny, Will/Grelle. Quick writing, fail editing. Part of the "Bicentennial" series (" Bicentennial," "Inevitable," "Five Thousand," "Timetable," "Coffee Break," "Cats and Dogs," "Surely Someday," "Turn," and "Hitches and Knots"). Spans the entire course of the series, ending just prior to "Hitches and Knots;" references stories that, sadly, I haven't had a chance to write yet. XD; Brief shout-out to the manga; vaguest of vague shot-outs to 12gatsunohime's "Killing Time."

**XXX**

**Bouquet**

**XXX**

**Celosia**

It's the touch of her hair that I most remember— shifting through my fingers, drumming rhythmically against her back. The way the auburn threads glinted burgundy in the sunlight, woven into plaits, with paintbrush tufts of silk peeking out from beneath twin ribbons. Maybe that's why I found the idea of dipping her braids in colored ink so poetic.

She was my first crush. I wonder what her name was.

**Moss Rose**

I hadn't paid her much mind, to be honest. She was short and quiet, plain and frumpy— and while I was young, I wasn't naive. I knew what a 'ten' was, and I knew I deserved one. I also knew that she didn't make the grade. But that night was Christmas Eve, and I've always been the giving sort; that year, I gave her my first kiss. And no, she wasn't usually much of a looker… But when she flushed beneath the mistletoe, the whole world suddenly seemed more… colorful. And not just because of the classroom decorations.

**Petunia**

Everyone wanted her. And everyone could have her, so long as they waited in line. I had my turn in the principal's office, a five-minute-fling that began when he stormed off to find new detention slips. She licked her lips, her ringlets bounced; she slipped her number into my pocket even as she rode my hips. And when the principal returned, she held the door and smiled, readjusting the indigo frames of her glasses. He complimented her on her skills.

I quietly did the same.

**Daisy**

Adolescence is a time of experimentation, discovery. I did a great deal of both: with tongue and teeth and wandering hands, mapping uncharted, but familiar territory on conquest after conquest. Pretty and cheap, dime-a-dozen girlfriends: white innocence that lasted just as long as childhood rhymes.

Then one of us would leave the other in petals on the floor.

**Violet**

She was wild and delicate, complicated and simple: a tiny speck of serenity in a foreign, frightening world of adult decisions and new expectations. A gentle word here, a lingering kiss there… But as I became more familiar with the path I now traveled, I lost my appreciation for that which had once fascinated me. Comforted me. And by the time I remembered to stop and smell the flowers, she had already wilted.

**Impatients**

We barely made it to the Scythe Storage Room before she was upon me, grinding low, low, low and leading my thoughts down with her. The next morning, we shared an awkward breakfast and a cordial goodbye.

**Columbine**

He— no, she— was the strangest thing I'd ever met, body and image distorted and twisted into a single, bright flame of passion, red as blood. I hated and I loved her; I coddled and I worshiped. For though there was no denying that she was some kind of crazy, there was a demented _wisdom_ in her insanity that I couldn't help but respect. So when she threw up her arms and demanded, "well, _yes_ —but who are you _living_ for?" I actually spared a moment to wonder.

" _Me_ , I guess?"

I immediately wandered off to my next fling.

**Hydrangea**

She was a sweet-scented fancy, a daydream, a human. I never should have spoken to her—not when I knew first-hand what sunrise would bring. But as her lilting laugh filled the square, I couldn't help it; I slid a ring on her finger, then slid it off of her corpse.

**Vinca**

Looks doesn't often last beyond the grave; a few thousand stamps and the roar of a lawnmower, and the faces of yesterdays' trappings disappear in the murky depths of memory.

**Lily**

I guess, as a grim reaper, it's weird to say that I don't believe in fairies—especially when I've met so many creatures that don't exist. But I don't, and I likely never will, unless I someday meet one. And even then, I rather doubt that they could be more enchanting than she was: willowy, graceful, and pale, with eyes that glittered like sapphires and lips as pink as coral. I flirted and flattered and tried to make it work, but still, like a pixie, she vanished.

**Diamond Frost**

Siberia was freezing, but her body was warm: tangled in limbs and furs before a roaring fire, gasping for breath as the heat became unbearable. And that seemed appropriate, because this felt like hell.

**Lilac**

Since I was in the area, I helped her (she really was a 'her,' now) and her stoic husband unload and unpack, sort and settle. Their new house was almost disgustingly picturesque, down to the white picket fence in the front. When we took a break from boxes, she made us lemonade, and decorated the table at which we sat with freshly-cut blossoms. Though her husband did not smile (ever, really), he did touch one of the flowers… then placed it behind her ear with a look that might even be described as affectionate.

I joked that I felt sick when I watched them kissed. But it wasn't a joke.

_Who are you living for?_

**Black-Eyed Susan**

She was nice. She was nicer. Every _inch_ of that one was fine. Dime-a-dozen girlfriends became $50-an-hour whores, and though the petals were different colors, they fell just the same. That was okay, though, so long as they fell without sound. Or price. Which they did, 'cause they never charged me. They loved me. Everyone loved me. And I loved them.

I think.

**Chrysanthemum**

In this line of work, you wind up going to a lot of funerals. So yeah, I knew what those blooms symbolized, even if I wasn't in the East. And at the time I found it funny, since I was in the devil's house, and they'd been set atop my usual seat upon the counter. As I munched on leftovers, I wondered if the demon had placed them there as a warning, and was all prepared to ask him when the front door flew open—

But someone else walked through it.

Arms full of more foliage, the green-eyed stranger blinked at me owlishly.

He then politely requested that I leave, if I was a thief.

**Daffodil**

In the spring, a young man's fancies turn to the fairer sex. I knew I was a death god, but wasn't I still a man? It was a thought to chew on when the girl at the bar grinned, and I found myself reminded of another short-haired blondie.

**Dandelion**

I didn't understand why I felt guilty when I kissed her— it wasn't like I was cheating on anyone. Not really. It had been the alcohol, then. Just like it was the alcohol, now. But with each smudge of scarlet lipstick, I heard her voice in my head; with every bump and grind of her body, I remembered the feel of his own. And though my head felt scrambled and my emotions all tangled, I couldn't shake the nagging sensation that I was allowing weeds to choke something beautiful.

**Marigold**

I sat with him outside. When he asked why, I lied and told him it was because I was bored. And he smiled, and talked of nothing, and gingerly cared for his tiny plot… but he never seemed to know just what was best for it.

"Blondie, you've gotta pull up those thistles and grasses if you don't wanna kill your precious flowers," I drawled, hiding beneath the shade of a nearby oak tree. Across the lawn, kneeling beside his patch, he responded with a sheepish laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck and smearing mud all over himself. Even still, he looked like sunshine.

"I know that in theory," he confessed with an endearingly embarrassed shrug, "but I can't seem to bring myself to do it in practice. After all, weeds are plants, too— what right do I have to cut them down? It doesn't seem fair to pick on them just 'cause they're stronger…" His voice trailed off, much like his thoughts.

I grunted. "You almost sound as if you like 'em more than those marigolds you worked so hard on," I commented wryly, and couldn't keep from snorting when he spun eagerly to face me, fists clenched and ready to punch the air.

"I don't like them _more_ , but I do like them a lot!" he cheered, beaming down at all of the growing greenery in his garden. "Weeds are tough. They know how to persevere— just like all of us, Mr. Ronald. Just like me. And just like you."

He giggled. I cleared my throat and refused to blush. "Dunno if I like being compared to a weed," I grumbled, readjusting my arms behind my head and crossing my legs as I leaned back against the trunk of the tree. High above, millions of feathery leaves were waving, like the souls of girls bidding a lover farewell. I sighed. "Chicks don't much care for weeds, you know?"

A soft sound of agreement— far closer than I'd been expecting. I glanced up to find him looming over me, legs splayed to straddle my own. Still wearing that pretty smile, he tilted his golden head and grinned… And even though we were both in shadows now, I suddenly felt very warm all over. "Well, maybe girls don't," Finny acceded, lacing slender fingers behind his lithe back. "But I love them."

A wind rushed though; the leaf-girls sang.

I didn't hear a note of it.

"…I'm pretty fond of 'em, too."

**XXX**


	9. Moral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, a long time ago, this guy noticed Death givin' him the ol' hairy eyeball.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

 **Author's Note:** Just a little Bicentennial-related piece that I finished in an hour or so. I wasn't even going to post it here, but some friends insisted. XD;

**XXX**

**Moral**

**XXX**

Once upon a time, a long time ago, this guy noticed Death givin' him the ol' hairy eyeball.

Obviously, the guy freaked out. I mean, "memento mori" and all of that—plus, Death had a horrific sense of style, back then. Not just dark and dreary, but trite to boot. _Anyone_ would have run screaming, if only to keep their eyes from bleeding. Though a splash of red might have helped improve the scene… In any case, that's what this guy did—he bolted to the village elder and asked for advice, something he could do to keep Death (who wasn't all that great at the 'subtly' thing) from finding him. The village elder scratched his beard (well, I assume he did; he was old and supposedly wise, so he undoubtedly had a beard) and told the guy about another city across the mountain path. It was almost a suicide run at that time of year, but if the guy was serious about escaping, it was probably his best bet.

This is where irony kicks in, of course.

So the guy makes the journey. And shockingly, he doesn't accidentally kill himself on the way—which is what I totally thought would happen the first time Will told me this story. No, instead, he makes it to the second town no worse for wear… only to immediately run into Death.

Needless to say, our hero was pissed. He'd just risked his life to escape Death, and there he was, as if waiting for him! Throwing a tantrum probably wasn't a wise idea, but still, he couldn't help but ask Death how the hell he'd managed to find him here.

"Well," said Death, "it's the darnest thing. When I saw you in that village the other day, I was so confused! My log said I was to pick you up in three days in _this_ city, so what were you doing in a place so far away? But I see it all worked out."

That's where the story ends, I guess, and that's where the moral kicks in. Back in school, Will told me the lesson was that we can't change fate, and it's stupid to try. But to me, it's always rang more as a warning about self-fulfilling prophesies, you know? Or any prophesy in a movie, really: it only comes to pass when someone goes out of their way to try and prevent it. Like… like in Kung Fu Panda 2. What if that peacock-kid had just left all of the pandas alone? He probably would have gotten away with being evil.

The point is, sometimes, inaction is action. Don't tell someone something is going to happen, and it won't. It's a different sort of self-fulfilling prophesy. Ignore Fate, and it won't hurt you. It will change and try to trick you, but it will keep its sorry ass away or it'll wind up with a pretty scarlet chainsaw lodged in its throat.

"How is he?"

Instinctively, I snap shut the covers of my book. _Ciel Phantomhive. Species: Devil. Cause of Death: Murder. Death Day—_ "Oh, the little brat is fine~" I trill, beaming at the worried demon loitering in the door. He's dressed in his Target uniform; crusting spots of brown are slowly starting to materialize on his shirtfront, burgundy blood oxidizing and appearing like magic. Sprawled atop freshly laundered sheets (you're welcome, brat), Ciel's bandages are staging a similar production, using the same set of tricks. But at least the pus is gone. And he's started breathing again. "I keep telling you, that sick priest doesn't have a prayer. No pun intended, heehee~"

Sebastian doesn't look convinced. Or amused. (C'mon, that was a pretty good pun, wasn't it?) Instead, he waffles in the threshold, unsure if he should go or stay—if he's more of a hindrance or a help. The poor romantic sop; he wants so badly to curl up beside his master and (literally) try to kiss his pain away, but he's got a shift tonight. He's already going to be late. Ciel is stable, but—but— but—

"Sebastian-darling, please," I scoff, pouting out my bottom lip in an expression of mock-hurt. "Do you really think I can't handle looking after a half-comatose child for a few hours? Honestly, you shouldn't be worried about _him_ —you should be worried about _me._ Who'll save me from being bored to death?" I sigh dramatically and scrub my fingers through my hair, looking as annoyed as possible. But only for a moment. Then I visibly soften, tone switching from sarcastic to soothing. "You know he'd order you to fulfill your obligations. And besides, I'm the one with the mothering instincts and bedside manner. You're more for in-bed manner, and tut-tut, now isn't the time for that." With a teasing smirk, I giggle behind an uplifted hand and wiggle my eyebrows in a knowing way.

For a full minute, his glare is flat and mirthless. But then Sebastian's shoulders sag. He lowers his head to shake it; when he glances back up, he wears a small smile.

"I'll be back promptly at eight. Please promise to tell him when he wakes up."

Apparently, according to American Sign Language, that old hand gesture I used in England was a 'backwards' "I love you." Recently—after having fully assimilated myself in the US-style of life— I've taken to flipping my hand palm-out and portraying my feelings properly. "Cross my heart and hope to _die_ ~"

Sebastian snorts, satisfied, and turns away. I can hear his keys jangle and the door latch itself as he goes, leaving his heart behind. For a while (just in case) I continue to wear my perky smile… But after half an hour I allow it to slide away, and open my book once more.

_Sebastian Michaelis. Species: Devil. Cause of Death: Starvation. Heartbreak._

Excellent. Just a little while ago, we'd been dealing with heartbreak and _suicide._ Even better—the clocks have jumped forward; both devils are now looking at—

"…g-good… read …?"

I glance up, startled. Ciel has cracked open one bloodied eye and is grinning at me, chest rolling with coughs and cringes. I can feel his fever from here; I set the lodger aside and instead pick up the cloth and bucket at my feet. I dip the cloth in lukewarm water, wring it out, and dab the brat's forehead with it, making a nonchalant sort of sound as I do so.

"Well, it's not _Harry Potter_ , but…"

He manages a brittle laugh. Good. A sense of humor is good. He hisses a long sigh as he, again, settles fully against his pillows, closing his eyes as I work. I'd have thought he'd just gone back to sleep had he not still been wearing a tiny smirk, as if inwardly laughing at some joke. Before I have a chance to ask what the punch line is, though, he asks:

"Is my… name in… t-there…?"

I don't pause. Blink. Jolt. React in any way. I only tell him, "nope" and offer an obnoxious laugh to counteract his idiocy. After all, demons don't die, right? Right. I clean out the rag again, reapply its coolness, and am so incredibly calm and casual that the brat has no choice but to believe me.

He returns to sleep. I return to my chair, my book, my thoughts.

If I don't allow them to see Death, they won't panic and try to flee. If I don't tell them about the city beyond the mountains, they won't think to leave. Death expects a rendezvous in three days time; by staying here, they'll escape him. I'll see to it that they stay. Because if they stay, I can protect them.

That's the moral of the story.

**XXX**


End file.
